


Slum Anthem

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, Bottom Jensen, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Top Jared, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:49:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 28,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4334489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen lives in a world that is very rigidly divided. He'd do anything to take care of his sister, and make sure she never has to suffer due to her class in society.</p><p>Jared lives in echelons that most people in society only dream of. He's got access to power that competitors will do anything to steal.</p><p>What happens when Jensen and Jared's fates become intertwined, and Jensen discovers a world-altering secret? Will they destroy one another in their search for salvation?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Slum Anthem Glossary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I've been remiss, and was reminded that it might be easier to have a page of terms to reference, rather than surfing through every separate chapter.
> 
> It is Alphabetized for easier convenience.

Agrrav (ah-grahv) Raven

Andzrevits’ kiny (anz-ray-veetz key-nay) Raining Woman

Antarr (ahn-tar)- district meaning forest

Aparanjan (ah-pair-rahn-john) stratum identification bracelet

Aparank’ (Ah-pear-rahnk)- Palace

Apush (ah-poosh) derogatory term)

Arev (ah-rev)- Sun

Ark’ayadustr (ark-ah-ya-doos-tair) Princess

Arrajin (Ah-rah-jean) First (as in the first in ranking on the Ts’uts’ak)

Artak’in (r-taak-een) formal azniv suit

Astvats (ahst-vahts) Primary God

Astvatsuhi (ahst-vahts-oo-he)

Avaz- (ah-vahz) district

Avotomek’yena (ahv-toe-mehk-yen-ha)- flying form of transportation (see ‘mek)

Azniv (ahz-neev) noble elect (for all intents and purposes, royalty) (Mets Ters and Mets Tikins)

Bal (bahl) Avazian fruit

Bavakanin tsarra (bah-vah-kah-neen)- slang term for attractive tsarra kept for looks/amusement

Burd (boord) tsarra coat

Dustr- (doos-tair)- affectionate diminutive for a girl

Dzhokk’ (Duh-zawk)- Hell

Dzmerr (Zuh-mair) Winter

Dzyun (zuh-hoon) District

Ferma (fair-mah) Farm

Garun- district (countryside)

Ghekavar- (gay-cav-ar) tsarra head

Grasenyak (gair-rah-sin-yak) Formal meeting room

Gravich’ (ger-ah-veech)- term of flirtatious endearment

Hachuyk’ (hah-chook)- proper name for ‘pleasure’ tsarra

Haghordavar- (hahg-whore-dah-var)- formal announcer

Hagnel (haahg-nell)- ceremonial robe of yntrel

Hagts’nel (haahgt-snell)- ceremonial gown of azniv

Hakvats (hahk-vahts) household tsarra

Hamalsaran (hah-mall-sah-ran) University

Hamalsarannery (Hah-mah-sar-ah-nair-ree) Universities

Havak’uyt’ (Hah-vahk-oot) Government

Hayr (higher)- affectionate name for father

Himn- (High-mean) Imperial Anthem

Hosank’ (hoe-sahnk)- district meaning river

Hska (hus-kah) giant

Ishkhanut’yun (eesh-ha-noot-yoon) Formal address for azniv

Ishkhanut’yun (eesh-hahnut-yun) - Formal name for the elect (azniv, usually)

Jur- water

Kapkel (kahp-kale) ape

Kapuyt (kah-poot) Mountain range

Kharishk (car-reesk) host

Khnamakal (Kuh-yan-mah-call) - Administrator

Khnamk’ (khyanhk)-  affectionate name for caregiver of yntrel/azniv

Khot (hoht)- City in the district of Jur

Krel- (Ker-el)- Crest of Tun Morgan, a bear

Kusakron- (koos-ah-croon) monk

K’ayly (ky-lair) surrogate sibling

Lerrnayin (lehr-nay-ehen)- the Capital

Lk’yel (ler-kel)- City in T’yer

Mahvan (mah-vahn) death ceremony for tsarra

Mak’ur- (mah-coor)- Holy Book

Manyak (mahn-yahk) formal collar

Margarit (Mar-gah-reet) Sea bordering Avaz

Mayr (my-er)- affectionate name for mother

Merrats mard (may-rahts-mard) dead man

Mets (mest) - Great (high-ranking)

Mets Srah (Mest Ser-rah)- Great Hall

Mets Yerek’ (Mest Yair-wreck) Great Three (referring to the most important ceremonies, release, termination and joining)

Nakhagah (Nah-hah-gah)- President

Nakhnik (nagh-neek)- birthright

Patarag (Pah-tar-rahg) Mass

Patmut’yun (paht-moot-hoon)- ceremonial robe of azniv

P’aylel (pie-lehl) River in Avaz

P’ul (pool)- ceremonial stage

P’vok Nakhagah (Puh-vok- nah-hah-gah) - Vice President

P’vok’rik vok’ (peh vawk rih vawk) disparaging name for younger siblings, little one

P’vos (pos) swimming hole

P’yunik (per-unique)- phoenix, symbol of Tun Padalecki

Rrazmakan (rahz-mah-kahn) Military tsarra

Sard (sarhd) Crest of Tun Amell, spider

Shnagayl (shuh-nah-gai-eel) Crest of Tun Kane, jackal

Siramarg (see-rah-marguh) exotic bird

Siravep (see-rah-vehp) courting

Sirekan (see-ray-kahn) Love (of one’s life)

Sireli mek (see-reh-lee-mek) term of endearment, dear one

Siruhi (see-roo-e) A mistress

Suzum (soo-zoom) sport involved diving at rapid speeds

Tegh- (tejh)- house, lesser form, for tsarra use only

Ter- (tear)- Lord

Tikin (Tea-keen)- Lady

Tort’ (thort) azniv dessert cake

Tsarra stratum- servant class

Tsisakarg- ceremonial jacket

Tssarukyan (zar-ook-yahn) Fairy Tales (for children)

Ts’uts’ak (tsuits-ahk) Power Ranking List of yntrel and azniv

Tun- (thoon)- House, (House Padalecki)

Tup’ (toop) waterproof backpack that causes drastic increases in wpm when diving

T’agavor (Tah-gah-vohr) King

T’yer (tear) District

Verarku (vair-r-coo) ceremonial azniv coat

Voghjuyn (vogue-juhen) Welcoming Ceremony

Voginery (voh-gen-nair-ruh) form of liquor

Vordi- (vor-dee) - affectionate diminutive for a boy

Vormnankar (Vorm-nahn-kahr) Mural depicting Tun family history

Voski Tari (Vos-key- Tah-ree) Gold Age

Yerekha (year-ray-hah)- younglings

Yergel (Yair-ghel) Musical party

Yerkink’y (yair-kink-ay) the heavens

Yntrel- lesser nobles (Ters and Tikins)

Zgest (erhz-guest)- ceremonial gown of yntrel

Zvarchank’ tsarra (zer-var-chank)- proper name for tsarra kept for looks/amusement

‘Mek- (mehk)- slang for vehicle

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like all terms to be here, in lieu of the glossary of the beginning of the chapter, please comment and let me know.  
> Or, if you would like terminology listed in the glossary as well as the start of the chapter, please indicate that as well.
> 
> I hope this makes it easier, and perhaps more enjoyable, sorry it took me so long!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to Know:  
> tsarra- servant  
> yntrel- slang for the elect  
> Jur- water  
> T’yer- petal (pronounced tear)  
> Manyak-collar  
> p’vok’rik vok’- disparaging name for younger siblings, "little one"  
> kapkel-ape

Jensen’s probably had more dicks in his mouth then he eats food within a week.

He’s working on being more at ease with that, he really is.

He’s grown up in Jur district, flat 59C, living around the incessant wailing of children--you can’t convince him otherwise, there are more kids in Jur than there are in all eight other districts combined.

He’s tsarra, and he’s always known what that entails.

He’s pretty tsarra, though, he thinks sullenly, that his ability to move upward is easier than it is for less desirable tsarra.

He’s owned--not owned, per say, but he’s contracted by the Morgans, in T’yer and they make an indecent amount of money off of him.

He’s only allowed to sleep with the most exclusive clientele, and even there, there’s a plethora of red tape to get through.

The only way tsarra are raised up is if they are underneath, Jensen reminds himself wearily.

Jensen’s pulls himself to his full height of 5’9, hoping he’s still got some growing left in him. He’d like nothing more than to look down on yntrel.

He’s only sixteen. There might be hope for him yet.

He glances down at Mackenzie’s sleeping form, soft tendrils of blonde hair curling on her cheek. She’s so pretty, Jensen thinks, ruefully.

They’ll want her, next.

Want to make them some depraved packaged deal, tsarra siblings, yours for the evening, if you play your cards right.

It’s despicable. He can’t fathom touching Mack in that way, exposing her to the highlights of his life that he glosses over, for her benefit.

His parents both slaved away in the mines, all their lives. His mother was beautiful, lucrative tsarra, and she hid herself away in the caves, all those years, to avoid being contracted and sent out to do the bidding of yntrel.

Jensen admires her, but he’s never possessed her strength.

They died suddenly six months ago, in the mining catastrophe that cost thousands of tsarra lives.

He had no trade yet. He was still completing his schooling. Gave no thought as to what he wanted to be, given the chance to grow up.

He could’ve been a respectable tsarra, a merchant perhaps, aligned himself with a strong yntrel family that would’ve contracted his services until he died.

This was all that was left to him.

There’s not often much judgment between tsarra, they were all born to this life, but there is an aura of covetousness that permeates the people.

Pretty tsarra are always envied.

No matter the cost of dignity, attractive tsarra almost never fail to make it out.

-

Jared’s a very self-possessed man.

He’s had no choice, his enemies continually scour him for any sign of an Achilles heel, any point of contention.

His father raised him as such.

His father also raised him with a strong pride behind his birthright.

It was a source of great sport when he was younger, a guaranteed entrance in the uppermost echelons, free pass for he and Chad to get their dicks wet by as many soft-skinned tsarra as money could buy.

And Gods, did they have a deluge of that.

Jared, and by extension, Chad have not changed in that regard, but they have become somewhat more respectful of it, now.

Jared’s an imperious man. Proud of his heritage, his work ethic, his wealth.

He would not say he’s brutish, but he’s well-aware of what he wants and is often able to contract anyone he desires to attain it.

His father is nearing the end of his life, he’s 240 years old, doesn’t look a day over 45, but he’s spent. Burned-out and he’d like to follow in his wife’s footsteps. She passed ten years ago and Gerald tried to maintain his vitality, but he was unable to.

Jared was natural-born, of that he is conceited as well. Proud that his family was able to afford to keep him incubated until they were prepared to raise him.

His brother is fifty years his elder in natural time, four years his senior in uncommon time. Jared’s 24, and he’s got the entire world at his fingertips. Jared’s pleased that his parents elected to discharge he and his sister close together, in natural time. They’ve got similar experiences, now.

Megan was just released twenty years ago, and she’s still green, lovely and vibrant, running through money like it’s water.

Indispensable.

Jeff sits with him at the embossed mahogany table, fingers flipping through their father’s will erratically.

Jared stretches, like a lean cat, and adjusts his manyak, the elaborate piece is digging into his damn neck.

“Stop reading the damn thing again, Jeff, you know what it says. You and dad oversaw the fucking thing together.”

Jeff waves his hand absently in his younger brother’s direction, lower lip clenched tightly in his teeth.

“Shut up p’vok’rik vok’, his brother hisses, and Jared exercises his considerable self-constraint by not backhanding his brother across the face.

His brother hasn’t used the disparaging nickname in years. He must be acutely stonewalled over the will.

Jared stands with a deep sigh, unbuttons the top two buttons of his linen dress shirt, strong legs outlined in his charcoal slacks.

“Call me if you need me, kapkel,” he throws carelessly over his shoulder, and he is less than pleased at the acknowledging snarl he receives in response from his brother.

Ah, well. He does not suffer slights easily, but he will consequence his brother for his misdeed, all in good time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> Lerrnayin (lehr-nay-ehen)- the Capital  
> Yerkink’y (yair-kink-ay) the heavens  
> aparanjan (ah-pair-rahn-john) stratum identification bracelet  
> yerekha (year-ray-hah)- younglings  
> Avotomek’yena (ahv-toe-mehk-yen-ha)- flying form of transportation  
> ‘mek- (mehk)- slang for vehicle  
> Ter- (tear)- Lord  
> Tikin (Tea-keen)- Lady  
> Aparank’ (Ah-pear-rahnk)- Palace  
> tsisakarg- ceremonial jacket  
> Garun- district (countryside)  
> azniv- (ahz-neev)- noble elect (the nobility)  
> mets (mest) - Great (high-ranking)

Mackenzie almost sticks him in his pupil as she endeavors to fix the kohl outlining his emeralds eyes.

“Fuck, Kenz, I’m not replaceable!”

She snorts above him, holding his eyelid open with her thumb.

“Lies. There are prettier tsarra that would love to take your place. Go to Lerrnayin with the Morgan’s and play arm candy all night.”

Jensen huffs, folding his hands gracefully in his lap.

He doesn’t see why he’s got to accompany Jeff, but he’s currently sitting pretty as Jeff’s favored tsarra, and it wouldn’t bode well for he or Mack were he to displease the man.

Her fingers brush over the thin strip of metallic gold the Morgan’s have had temporarily tattooed upon his eyelids. Between that and the kohl he looks like an ethereal being, sent from Yerkink’y to bless the masses.

Mack’s fairly doused him in gold dust, fluttering the last of it in his hair, and she stands back, pleased.

“You look like a god,” she declares, gaze glossing over him reverently.

Jensen blushes.

He hates that look, that gleam people get in their eyes when they see him. The same look Mack’s got now, like he’s some unattainable goal that they aspire to.

Jensen clears his throat, more for her benefit than his, and tugs his tight, dark black v-neck on over his body.

His jeans are as tight as they can be without causing chafing, and he breathes out a sigh of anxiety.

Mack tugs her long hair into a ponytail and adjusts the aparanjan on her wrist, the dull black sheen of it giving away the fact that she is a born tsarra.

Jensen cups her chin in his hand, voice firm.

“It’ll be fine, Mack. This is good news. If all goes well tonight, I can discuss a contract for you.” He blanches, rephrasing his words.

“A different sort of contract, than mine, of course.” Mack stares quizzically up at him; she’s never learned the exact specifications of his contract.

“Maybe you can teach the yerekha, huh? They can learn math and their scribbles and you’ll have an excuse to read all those big books you’re always lugging around.”

Mack bats at his hand half-heartedly, her eyes already excited about the prospect of teaching yntrel children.

She’s never experienced the callous way yntrel can treat tsarra, nor the disdain they inherently contain for everything considered beneath them. Yntrel don’t often visit Jur, it’s too poor a district for them to frequent.

Jensen hears the tell-tale sounds of the Avotomek’yena descending to aviate him to Lerrnayin, the capital. A place he’s only been once, and that was upon his birth, to register him as a natural-born tsarra.

It’s too expensive to travel for a tsarra. It is the city of yntrel, and tsarra only enter at the whim of their Contractor.

Jensen doesn’t want to think about what that means for him. That’s he’s the contracted of someone powerful enough to engage with those in Lerrnayin.

The ‘mek is smells of leather and it’s been buffed to a sheen.

Jeff Morgan reclines in the back, his face kindly as the moonlight reflects off of the salt and pepper of his hair.

Jensen’s asked him often why he chooses not to rejuvenate, and Jeff only laughs.

“I engage, my dear Jensen. But I’ve no wish to look twenty when I’m a hundred and five.”

Jensen genuflects as he enters and inclines his head to his Ter.

“Ter Jeff, how are you this evening?”

The Ter faces him ponderously, hands splayed across his middle. “I’ve no patience for these affairs Jen. I’m not a young man any longer, and my Tikin and I have just released our second child. “

Jeff’s smile becomes placid.

Jensen has met the newest Morgan, a natural-born, her eyes blue as the ocean when she took her first, real breaths.

Jeff is aware that Jensen knows this, and that he just wants an excuse to discuss his family. Jensen acknowledges that this is his purpose.

Jeff has never set him up as a high-class whore, as so many tsarra become in the aparank’ of many yntrel.

Yes, Jensen has had to use his mouth to pleasure others, business competitors, but he’s only ever slept with one man, thus far, and Jeff has never looked at him the less for it.

Samantha, the Tikin of Morgan Aparank’ has never particularly liked him, but Jensen surmises that’s because she sees the way her husband’s eyes linger on his form, and the handful of times Jeff has taken Jensen to his bed.

Jensen doesn’t want to admit that he may be more vocal than necessary as Jeff thrusts into his tight, wet heat, may ensure that his slick permeates on Jeff’s clothes once they’ve finished.

Jensen may be just tsarra, but he’s got feelings.

He’s never asked to lay in Jeff’s marital bed, and she ought to gather some perspective and realize that.

The ‘mek is uncommonly quick, and Jensen conjectures that this is a product of power and access to the latest in technological advances.

Jeff alights first and there is a flurry of his personal retinue of tsarra on hand, having arrived earlier to prepare for the Ter’s advent.

They fuss about Jensen as well, whispering snatches of gossip in his ear under the guise of picking at his hair and adjusting his makeup.

His friend Danni leans forwards, white grin bright and quick as she fastens a tsisakarg around his shoulders and buttons it deftly to his neck.

She tugs at his arm and pulls him into the entrance room of Ter’s aparank’ in Lerrnayin, biting her lower lip so hard she draws blood, and Jensen knows whatever she’s got to tell him is pressing, at worst, life-altering at best.

Dani is 5’7, all sensuous lines and curves, her hair natural red, and many Tikins have contracted her solely to see how to replicate that crimson mane.

The Ter loves Dani, loves Dani and Jensen together, thinks they’re the best contracts he’s ever procured. Jensen’s inclined to agree, he and Dani are pretty together. They make a lovely buffet of decadent sin for yntrel to feast upon.

He throws him into the closest open room she can find and squeals in excitement.

“Jen. Jen Jen Jen.”

He grabs hold of her forearms and brushed wild tendrils of hair away from her aristocratic features.

“Jeff’s here at the behest of Mets Ter Gerald Padalecki. Jensen. Jensen, he never ever leaves his summer aparank’ in Garun any longer, and they say he’s scheduled himself for termination--” her voice lowers shamefully at this tidbit of gossip. “Just couldn’t stay without his Mets Tikin, any longer.”

Jensen’s brow furrows. What’s this man, a member of the highest stratum, azniv, doing, leaving his self-imposed exile to come to Lerrnayin, the busiest hub of the Empire?

Dani’s galloping around the room, a wild thing, her eyes alight with all of the possibilities.

Dani’s a well-known tsarra, been at it for two years to Jensen’s six months, and she wants to make a good impression.

Jensen’s got excitement running through his veins.

Contracts for Mack, he thinks frantically. With azniv, no less!

He’s aware it’s a pipe dream. Azniv hand-pick their tsarra, there will be no bargaining there. But he’s allowed to dream, isn’t he?

Dani grabs his hands with cold fingers and pulls them around herself in a hug.

“I’ve forgotten the best news!” She exclaims, too loudly, into his right ear.

“Gods, Dani, what could you have possibly left out?”

“His sons are coming. Mets Ters Jeff and Jared.” Her mouth curves up.

“They avoid these gatherings like the plague. Prefer to make their own fun. But if they’re attending.” She squeals--again--and finally flops down into an armchair.

“Jensen, this one’s important.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> tsarra (zar-rah)  
> patmut’yun (paht-moot-hoon)- ceremonial robe of azniv  
> hagts’nel (haahgt-snell)- ceremonial gown of azniv  
> zgest (erhz-guest)- ceremonial gown of yntrel  
> hagnel (haahg-nell)- ceremonial robe of yntrel  
> khnamk’ (khyanhk)- affectionate name for caregiver of yntrel/azniv  
> vordi- (vor-dee) - affectionate diminutive for a boy  
> mayr (my-er)- affectionate name for mother  
> Antarr (ahn-tar)- district meaning forest  
> Hosank’ (hoe-sahnk)- district meaning river  
> Tun- (thoon)- House, (House Padalecki)  
> Mets Srah (Mest Ser-rah)- Great Hall  
> voginery (voh-gen-nair-ruh) form of liquor  
> apush (ah-poosh) derogatory term

Jared was damned annoyed that they stood so much on ceremony at these things.

He was even more irritated at the fact that his father had actually managed to venture from Garun in order to travel to Lerrnayin, a city that he professed to hold no great love for.

Jared’s own aparank’ was located in the Capital, and he happened to love the decadence that resided here.

In moderation, of course. He was no longer a boy of eight and ten.

His four tsarra flit around him, tugging on his extremities as they wrangle his uncooperative body into the sleeves of his patmut’yun, the color a delicate blend of golden and green, with the stiff, high necked manyak that irritated his long hair so often.

Jared feels poorly for acting so mulishly, when his tsarra are only doing their duty by him. Most of these are his childhood tsarra, even his own khnamk’ was in attendance, her long black hair littered with grey, brown eyes filled with mirth.

“Stop your damn complaining Jay,” she admonished, fussing at his evening wear and straightening the manyak that he insisted on turning askew.

The younger tsarra in the retinue, those who had not grown up with Jared, looked aghast that Loretta would deign to speak to a Mets Ter in such a familiar manner.

Jared ducked his head, the tips of his ears flushing red.

“I haven’t even said anything, Retta,” Jared snarked, annoyance plainly displayed on his handsome features, in the tilt of his pink lips and the slant of his myriad of colors eyes.

Loretta slapped his wrist. “You watch your tongue now, vordi. I’ve had you over my knees before, and you may be tall as a tree now but I still know how to hit where it hurts.”

Jared rubbed the back of his neck and then quickly removed his hand before Retta could scold him for mussing his hair for the third time.

She relented, clasping her small brown hands in front of her to inspect her handiwork. Jared squirmed under the scrutiny, feeling every inch the ten year old vordi Retta seemed to still think he was.

“You’re such a handsome young man.” She smiled brilliantly, as she had personally released Jared himself.

“I was there the day they choose to release you, planned your whole releasing ceremony with your mayr, may the Mets Tikin rest in peace.”

The combined tsarra and Jared made the quick sign of blessing across their chests as Retta continued her reminiscences. Jared smiled to himself. If he was lucky, Retta would talk herself all the way down memory lane, and Jared would miss the entire gathering.

On cue, his khnamk’ swatted at his arm.

“You’re not gettin out this one, Jay. Your daddy needs you and your brother here tonight. He’s--” Here she clucked in the direction of the other tsarra and they scattered like chickens, leaving Jared and Retta to continue in relative privacy.

“He’s planning his termination ceremony soon, and he’s got loose ends to settle. You’d do well to pay attention.” She flutters her hands at him. “Don’t look at me like that, vordi. You’ve got those holdings in Antarr, Lerrnayin and Hosank’.”

Jared shrugs. There’s not very much Retta misses.

“Don’t be stupid. There’s a lot more at stake here than you think. Still wet behind the ears, I know, but you’re a Mets Ter. Try and act like one.”

She shakes imaginary dust off of his patmut’yun, and smiles up at him, bright as the first time she did it when he skinned both of his knees play fighting with some of the youngest tsarra in his family aparank’.

Jared glides from his changing rooms, household tsarra following quietly--mostly--behind. He’s a heavy-handed Mets Ter with his tsarra, but he’s also known for being one of the most reasonable. As long as you follow the guidelines of your contract, Jared leaves his tsarra in relative peace.

He’s supposed to make a dual entrance with Jeff, but he hasn’t forgotten Jeff’s defamatory slight in Garun a few weeks ago.

He loves his brother a good deal, but he’s spent too long as the second primary in Tun Padalecki, proving himself to be that much more ruthless than his elder brother, to let even the smallest insult pass unchallenged.

His household tsarra flutter around him one last time, all kindly older women, cooing at him with sweet eyes. He brushes his knuckles against the face of the oldest and she turns crimson and titters to the tsarra behind her.

The parade tsarra switch the elders out, their young, lean bodies a direct testament to his wealth and strength. He keeps an even number of males and females, ten count, although he prefers the figures of males.

Their eyes are lined with kohl, bodies draped in ceremonial tsisakarg, dripping with the finest jewels Tun Padalecki can buy.

Which, admittedly, is innumerable.

They all gleam in the low lamplight, all of them deadly silent, knowing how important an understated, yet formal entrance is for a Ter, and a young Mets Ter, at that.

The gilded doors open slowly, and Jared steps forward, parade tsarra flanked to the left and the right of him, three paces behind, always.

“Presenting Mets Ter Jared of Tun Padalecki, Holder of titles in Lerrnayin, and all districts further reaching.”

Jared inclines his head as the yntrel and azniv assembled acknowledge his appearance with appropriate applause.

He hears an obscenely loud whoop, followed by a “Look at that mane in that patmut’yun!” Which, he knows from experience belongs to Chad.

His tsarra laugh behind him as do the assembled and the feasting continues unabated. His eyes surreptitiously glance around the Mets Srah, and his eyes alight on Tun Murray, his best friend flanked by some of the most decadent tsarra he’s seen in a fortnight. Leave it to Chad to have a monopoly on tsarra ass.

Chad throws open his arms good-naturedly and Jared hauls him in for a bone-crushing hug. There are far fewer azniv than yntrel, seeing as their births are more rare, and therefore, more blessed by the Gods. The azniv hold the crux of the power in the Empire, but the yntrel live large in and of themselves.

Jared grew up around various azniv families of power, and was thus how he was introduced to Chad. Chad’s always been a bit of a wild thing, too much money and not enough supervision. He’s always dragged Jared into his messes and then counted on his best friend to bail him out.

He’s a son of a bitch but Jared can’t help but love him regardless.

“My Mets Ter, Jared of Tun Padalecki,” Chad chortles, eyes liquid as he inches himself closer and closer to inebriation. His tsarra slyly angle his hands away from the bottle, but he procures it all the same. Jared knows he’s chugging voginery, and Jared’s envious, he’d like to get blackout in order to get through this ordeal. He hates dressing up and he hates politics even more.

He adjusts his manyak, loosening it one good time.

“Mets Ter, Chad of Tun Murray, he ribs back good naturedly.” His friend has business acumen that is unrivaled when he is sober and he’s got substantial holdings in the mines that countless tsarra labor in.

“How are you already so sloppy? We’ve been here for thirty minutes, if that.”

Chad sits up, cheeks flushed.

“Ah Jare, I’ve got my priorities.” He tickles the fair-skinned tsarra boy on his lap and the boy chews at his lip to keep from giggling.

Jared shakes his head indulgently and opens his mouth to speak when he hears the beginning of another entrance announcement.

Chad sobers up quickly, recognizing the rules and mores of their class innately.

“Presenting Ter Jeff and Tikin Samantha of Tun Morgan, Holder of lands in T’yer, Lerrnayin and other districts further reaching.”

Jared politely applauds and dispassionately watches them enter. His father does business with the man, he’s grown up seeing him linger around the aparank’ and pass Jared sweets when his khnamk’ and mayr were otherwise occupied.

His gaze rotates to their parade tsarra, beautiful boys and girls of various ages.

His eyes spy a flash of red and he grins inwardly.

That would be tsarra Danneel. He knows this because Tikins gossip ridiculously, and they like to lament the fact that a born tsarra was blessed with hair that lovely shade, and they’ve been relegated to a dull brown.

Jared thinks the hair probably suits the personality.

He can hear Danni chattering as Tun Morgan approaches, probably preparing to begin her shift of mingling within the crowd.

Tsarra are often used as spies, because they’re so plentiful and unobtrusive, people tend to forget to be mindful of what they say around them.

“Jensen. Jenny. Jen-Jen.” Jared’s brows raised, and wonders what sort of person can stand Danni’s clear butchery of their birth-name.

He’s about to reach for Danneel, having never received the pleasure of her company, when he catches an eyeball of her fellow tsarra.

The boy’s body is trim and golden, covered in freckles, and he’s slight, like he’s still got a few more years left in him to grow. His eyes are meticulously outlined in kohl and gold, and his tsisakarg is emerald-green, just like his eyes.

He’s got a plush bottom lip, and Jared mindlessly takes a quickly arrested step forward in order to nibble at that treat.

Chad’s peals of laughter interrupt his musings, and he whirls to face his friend, finding him ineptly grinning at him.

“You’re not a damn apush Jay, mind your manners and say hello. You’re a Mets Ter, for the sake of the Gods!”

Jared’s smile lengthens into a predator’s mask.

After all, he’s only curious.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> p’yunik (per-unique)- phoenix, symbol of Tun Padalecki  
> gravich’ (ger-ah-veech)- term of flirtatious endearment  
> tegh- (tejh)- house, lesser form, for tsarra use only  
> Ishkhanut’yun (eesh-hahnut-yun) - Formal name for the elect (azniv, usually)  
> bavakanin tsarra (bah-vah-kah-neen)- slang term for attractive tsarra kept for looks/amusement  
> zvarchank’ tsarra (zer-var-chank)- proper name for tsarra kept for looks/amusement  
> hachuyk’ tsarra (hah-chook)- proper name for ‘pleasure’ tsarra  
> hagts’nel (haahgt-snell)- ceremonial gown of azniv  
> p’ul (pool)- ceremonial stage  
> haghordavar- (hahg-whore-dah-var)- formal announcer  
> kharishk (car-reesk) host  
> Ts’uts’ak (tsuits-ahk) Power Ranking List of yntrel and azniv

Jensen watches with indignance as Danni spins him deftly and hurdles him straight into the path of a young Mets Ter.

Jensen’s heard azniv likened to gods before, and as he looks up into the face of one, he can immediately understand why.

This one has a mane like a lion, and it’s kept carefully restrained by the elaborate blue and green manyak around his neck.

It’s got an intricately painted p’yunik covering the length of it, the crest of Tun Padalecki.

Jensen’s got approximately fourteen seconds to realize this before Danni’s popping him in his spine with her bony elbow, and they’re both genuflecting before him.

“By my leave,” he replies, after a courteous interval. Danni rises gracefully, and Jensen wills his body to follow suit.

The Mets Ter smiles down benevolently and Danni has the grace to giggle under the attention.

Jensen can only flush, perplexed as to why this particular Mets Ter has interrupted the processional of Tun Morgan.

The other tsarra have caught up to their Ter, and Danni twirls red curls around her finger, seemingly absently.

“I am Mets Ter Jared, of Tun Padalecki.” He pauses, straight white teeth sparkling.

“I know Danneel,” he chucks her under the chin with a lascivious wink--”but I’m wholly unfamiliar with you, gravich’.”

Jensen’s face is fully alight--is this Mets Ter flirting with him, in the middle of the Mets Srah?

“I am Jensen, first primary of Tegh Ackles in Jur, tsarra of the second order, contracted by Tun Morgan, my Ishkhanut’yun.”

Jensen’s so pleased that his introduction is impeccable, and shoots Danni a grateful glance, as she was the one who drilled it into him.

A respectful, adept tsarra reflects well upon his Ter.

Mets Ter Jared looks immensely pleased that Jensen’s used the formal derivative of yntrel, and he says as much.

“That was pleasant to my ears, gravich’” and Jensen preens under the praise.

He doesn’t hold great fondness for the yntrel, but this Mets Ter is easy on the eyes, and though he may be as entitled as the rest, if he is indulgent to his tsarra, Jensen might be able to ask him to think of contracting Mack.

Jensen knows he is uncommonly pretty, most bavakanin tsarra are, and he’s always been less than thrilled about the fact.

He’s incredibly blessed that the Gods have not seen fit to turn Jensen into a hachuyk’, and have allowed Tun Morgan to contract him.

However, he’s not averse to using his looks to his advantage. Danni clearly is not, and this Mets Ter is on a first name basis with her!

Jensen allows himself to flush, and boldly meets the eyes of the young Mets Ter. He looks back down, letting his thick lashes flutter against freckled cheeks.

“By your leave, Ishkhanut’yun.”

He feels fingers (by the Gods, he’s touching Jensen) angle his face up, and the hazel eyes are filled with mirth, and a something a bit cold and calculating.

“I would have you contracted,” he murmured, running a smooth thumb over Jensen’s lower lip. Jensen allows it and lets his eyes grow wide at the ministrations.

Jensen is sure to blink slowly, mindful of the kohl and gold surrounding his oculus.

Jared releases him, and gestures behind him at the tables belonging to Tun Murray.

“Chad. Chad you great kapkel, sit up and look!” He rotates back to face Jensen, eyes filled with merriment.

“Look at my little gravich’. I’ll have him contracted within the night. You haven’t any as uncommonly pretty as this one.”

Chad pulls himself into a sitting position and, after some grumbling, tugs his manyak off completely, causing his tsarra to exclaim wildly and fruitlessly attempt to re-attach it.

A Mets Ter must never be in public without his manyak, and Chad is no exception.

Chad’s eyes linger salaciously over Jensen’s form, and he resists the urge to cover up.

“I’d like nothing more than to prove you wrong Jay, but he’s a pretty bavakanin, you’re not wrong.” Chad reaches out to touch Jensen’s face and cups the warm flesh in his palm.

“How many years are you, bavakanin?”

Jensen allows his face to be twisted this way and that, and replies demurely, “Six and ten, my Mets Ter.”

Chad whistles, low under his breath and steeples his fingers under his chin.

“Who’s he contracted to?” Chad inquires, directing the question at Jared.

Jared keeps one eye on his treasure, who is gripping tightly to Danneel’s hand.

“Tun Morgan. Ter Morgan’s got no use for all these bavakanin. Bavakanin are a young man’s domain, and he’s just released his second child. Tikin Samantha can’t be pleased at his choice of tsarra.”

Jensen is startled at the casual discussion of his Tun and it’s occupants, but before he can put up a fuss Danneel squeezes the fingers in his bones near to breaking.

“Azniv,” she mouths hurriedly, immediately returning to her simpering facade, pretty face vacant.

Jensen colors. He could’ve gotten them disciplined. Or, at worst case, prematurely terminated. He must pay better attention. He knew that, though. Azniv can discuss whatever they wish, whenever they wish.

And these two must be accustomed to being treated as young Gods, the nobility that they are.

Mets Ter Jared faces him again, fingers tangled in his manyak and loosening it a little.

“Where are the tables allotted to your Tun?

Jensen does not know, but Danni steps forward, china white hand touching the sleeve of his patmut’yun fleetingly.

“They are in the far corner, to the very left, in the back. Can you see them, my Mets Ter?”

He nods, face contemplative.

“I’ll not keep you any longer my bavakanin, but I will be seeing you soon, yes?”

It’s politely phrased as a question, but Jensen knows this azniv can have anything he sets his mind to.

“You’ll have to discuss that with our Ter, Mets Ter Padalecki.” Jensen genuflects and nudges a stunned Danni to follow suit.

Jensen fairly scurries away, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest.

Danni is gasping laughter next to him when they finally sidle up next to their Tun tsarra.

“Are you insane? You’re a damn apush, you know that? Fucking told the second primary of Tun Padalecki to schedule a meeting, and you _might_ be able to squeeze him in.”

Jensen grabs her shoulders, shaking with adrenaline and begs her to regain her composure, she’s in great danger of smearing her intricate eye makeup.

She nods vigorously, soundlessly heeding his warning.

She’s spinning around then, bright eyes scoping out the Mets Srah in interest.

“Is he looking?” Jensen whispers out of the side of his mouth. She nods, looking remarkably like a fish with the way her mouth is gaping. A lovely fish, but a fish nonetheless.

“He’s walking to the tables belonging to Tun Padalecki now. He’s stopped to talk to Mets Tikin Genevieve--Gods, Jen her hagts’nel must have cost a fortune, it’s blood red, and her manyak has--I’ll be damned, I can’t see what’s on it from so far away--” Jensen tugs at Danni’s sleeve.

“Danneel! The Mets Ter! What’s he doing?” Danneel brushes his hands off impatiently. “He’s talking with his elder brother.”

She snorts, hand rising to delicately cover her mouth. “The first primary looks angry. They’re sitting now--”

Her voice dies off as their Kharishk strides to the front of the Mets Srah and crosses onto the p’ul in front of his guests.

It is customary to formally introduce the Kharishk after all of his guests have arrived, and the crowd devolves into silence as the blue eyed man smiles genially down at the assembled.

His haghordavar begins, satisfied that he has complete attention.

“Presenting Mets Ter Misha, of Tun Collins, Kharishk of your evening, Holder of titles in Lerrnayin, and several other districts further reaching.

The aggregation applauds, and Mets Ter Collins smiles broadly. “I know many of you hold no great desire to stay uncomfortably dressed all evening, and I have no desire to keep you so.”

His guests chuckle, he’s politely stated how they all feel.

“However, and this for you, my lovely Tikins and Mets Tikins, I must steal your husbands, brothers and sons for talk of politics this evening.”

Barely concealed groans ripple through the Mets Srah, and the Mets Ter holds up his hands placatingly.

“I won’t keep them very long, I promise.”

Jensen looks around, trying to ascertain just how many houses are dining tonight. There is Tun Padalecki, of course, Tuns Morgan, Murray, Kane and Collins.

Jensen is confused. He’d thought there would be way more. As if Danni can sense his confusion, she leans down to mumble in his ear.

“There are several primaries with the Tuns tonight. Usually only the first male primary will engage in political discussions. Then, that leaves the Ters and Mets Ters of the Tuns. When they leave, you’ll barely notice, there are too many Tikins and Mets Tikins left here to occupy us.” Her little nose scrunches up in disgust and Jensen narrowly avoids an unseemly laugh.

Jensen watches as the aforementioned men rise as one to complete the processional and exit the Mets Srah behind the Kharishk. He watches Ter Morgan move along, taking his place towards the middle of the queue.

Jensen turns befuddled eyes to Danni, and she gazes up to the ceiling.

“Gods, do they teach you nothing in Jur?” She’s only fondly exasperated, he knows. “They line up according to ranking. Power and wealth, if you will. It’s called the Ts’uts’ak, and it’s not becoming to speak of it in polite company.

Danni’s teeth flash, wicked sharp as she tosses her head away.

“Like we don’t know that’s what they’re always fighting for, anyway.”

Jensen’s head is swimming with how much he’s supposed to take in, as zvarchank’, and he can’t help noticing that Mets Ter Jared is fourth in line, just behind his brother and father. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> grasenyak (gair-rah-sin-yak) Formal meeting room  
> khnamakal (Kuh-yan-mah-call) - Administrator  
> Ferma (fair-mah) Farm  
> Nakhagah (Nah-hah-gah)- President  
> P’vok Nakhagah (Puh-vok- nah-hah-gah) - Vice President  
> Hamalsarannery (Hah-mah-sar-ah-nair-ree) Universities  
> Avaz- (ah-vahz) district

As much as Jared would like to concern himself solely with the acquisition of the green-eyed bavakanin in Tun Morgan, he’s quickly made aware that there is more to be focused on.

Chad is silent just behind him, ever proficient at knowing when to hold his liquor. Jeff is irritated at him for his less than ceremonial entrance earlier.

“I had to be presented after the second primary, Jared! You wouldn’t understand that!”

Jared smiles to himself at the recent memory.

Should teach his brother that he has a long-reaching memory.

Kharishk Collins leads them to his grasenyak, and gestures for them all to sit, according to Ts’uts’ak, and Jared settles, with relatively minor grumbling, just behind his family members.

Gone is the benignly smiling man from the Mets Sahr, in his place is a calculating one, his jawline squared and his cerulean eyes coasting over his guests.

“I assume you know why you’ve all been gathered here tonight.”

Jared straightens up until his spine pops and glances at the elaborate manyak around his father’s neck. It’s encircled by his mother’s thinner one, as is the custom when a spouse dies.

Jared can only think of how cumbersome his own is right now, and how he doesn’t think he could stand to wear two.

All the more reason to never wed anyone.

Collins presses fingertips into his table.

“I’ve been khnamakal of the Ferma Holdings in Lerrnayin, Garun and Antarr for the past ten years. It has recently been brought to my attention, that after several attempts to re-calculate, the accounting identity has been exposed as fraudulent.”

Beside Jared, Jeff visibly stills.

A slow smirk twists on Jared’s face. Jared’s father is Mets Nakhagah, and therefore controls the most lucrative business currently in operation in the Empire.

Jeff, as first primary, acts directly under his father, as interim P’vok Nakhagah.

His father has been planning his termination ceremony, and it is Jeff’s responsibility in his absence. Jared leans forward, spine rigid, and he can sense Chad leering as well.

This will not be pretty.

Jared’s father clears his throat, and everyone in the room makes the sign of the blessing in deference.

“What exactly, is the discrepancy in calculations, my khnamakal?”

Jeff makes an aborted sound deep in his throat. The question should have been addressed to him. No matter, Jared is out for blood.

Collins leans back in his chair. “The liabilities outweigh the assets.” He says, shortly.

Jared calls for attention, and the sign of the blessing is hurriedly done as he begins to speak.

“My khnamakal,” he begins condescendingly, “not that your complete lack of respect to an azniv far above you in the Ts’uts’ak isn’t endearing, to say the least, but I believe my father, as presiding Nakhagah would like more information than what you’ve so...succinctly provided.”

Misha has gone a bit pale, so certain his slight would be left unchallenged due to the fact that he was bringing this pressing problem to the table.

“My young Mets Ter, I meant no ill will--” Jared holds up a finger, bading the man be silent.

“Of this, fraudulent accounting error. Have we the double-entry bookkeeping at our disposal? Specifically, I would like to see the paired entries regarding the sale of product and the reduction in inventory for goods sold.”

Chad speaks up then, his voice a smooth drawl from the voginery, and he wears the same feral smile as Jared.

“That would include the receipts of cash as well, my khnamakal.”

“Futhermore,” Jared adds, running an agitated hand through the hair Retta so lovingly arranged, “please don’t leave out any bookkeeping concerning the creation of a trade, which would thereby be receivable in the case of extension of credit to one of our clients.”

Jared can feel Jeff’s eyes boring in the side of his head, but he pays them no heed. He was educated in the top Hamalsarannery in the Empire. He’s never been shy about using his mental prowess.

Morgan speaks, from farther down the table. “My Mets Ters,” he begins respectfully. “By our leave,” the assembled azniv reply, as the other Ters remain silent.

“I retain lesser holdings, still within the framework of the Ferma, in other territories. I would oblige you by having you visit my offices at your earliest convenience in order to see my balance sheets.”

Morgan inclines his head and offers Jared the sign of the blessing.

Jared’s heart is so accelerated, he’s sure that the assembled can hear it.

This man watched him grow up, attended his own release ceremony, and is ignoring the khnamakal in order to defer to him.

“I would love nothing more, my Ter.”

Collins is fair near trembling in his seat, no doubt realizing the depth of his mistake. He must not have studied the Padalecki family in much depth. If he had, he would have known how volatile the second primary of Tun Padalecki is.

Mets Ter Kane speaks up, his voice a drone from the district of Avaz, near the sea. “If you’ll have me, Mets Ter Jared, I will accompany you to each of the holdings in order to check on the reduction of goods and subsequent expansion of the assets, which should have occurred naturally with the reception of revenue.”

Jared likes Chris. He grew up visiting the boy’s home in Avaz, and though Kane has become more distant in recent years, with his father’s untimely termination and his mother’s consecutive decline in health, he was forced to grow up sooner than Jared, or Chad.

“By my leave, Mets Ter Kane. If you would accompany back to my home here in Lerrnayin following this meeting, we can begin at the earliest of convenience.”

Jared’s father holds up a hand, having watched his son with no lack of amusement.

“My young Mets Ter, I give you my blessing to continue with your investigation.” Jared finally sits back, and provides Jeff with a long, searching look. He may be the fiercest of competitors, but he has no desire to alienate his brother.

Jeff is bone pale, and he rigidly provides his younger brother with the sign of the blessing.

Mets Ter Collins has regained some of his color, and seems to be attempting to curry favor with the second primary of Tun Padalecki.

“Feel free to investigate my holdings at your leisure my Mets Ter Jared.” Jared has made his point, and very firmly re-inserted the Khnamakal in his place at the same time. It seems to him that this has been a very profitable night.

Jared’s father rises, compassionate smile coloring his handsome features. He knows the effect his younger son usually has on gatherings like this. His son is an animal, scenting out blood and going for the kill with a modicum of mercy.

“This meeting is adjourned.” Gerald begins the processional, standing in his place at the head of the line. Jared winks at Chad and his friend lets out a loud guffaw as Jared goes to take his place at the third.

Gerald eyes him quizzically and nods to second place, giving Jeff the sign of the blessing to take the third. The grasenyak is dead silent. The Ts’uts’ak is usually taken formulaically, cross referencing evidences of power and wealth over time and territory.

It’s clear here tonight, that the second primary of Tun Padalecki has made a checkmate.

-

Jensen is the first to notice the Ters and Mets Ters return to the Mets Sahr.

“Danni,” he hisses, “Danni, they’ve come back.”

Danneel turns quickly away from the tsarra she’s in hot debate with and stands on tiptoes beside Jensen to see.

“They all look fine, no blood--don’t look at me that way Jensen, there’s been meetings in the grasenyak that have ended in bloodshed before. Azniv are very hot-headed--Jensen Ackles. Jensen Ross Ackles.”

Jensen grips her wrist. She’s using his entire birth-name, which can either mean very good things, or very poor ones.

“The Ts’uts’ak has been altered!” Jensen is confused. He may not know very much, but he knows enough to understand that the Ts’uts’ak has a rigid policy in place for advancement and regression, and there has not been enough time allowed to follow ceremony.

“Mets Ter Jared is in the spot of the first primary of Tun Padalecki. His brother has declined to the spot of second primary.”

Jensen’s throat closes up.

Who is this man, who goes into a meeting with one ranking, and manages to exit with a higher?

And, by the Gods, why has this same man noticed him?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> Khot (hoht)- City in the district of Jur  
> krel- (Ker-el)- Crest of Tun Morgan, a bear  
> Lk’yel (ler-kel)- City in the district of T’yer  
> hayr (higher)- affectionate name for father  
> Sireli mek (see-reh-lee-mek) term of endearment, dear one

Jensen can see that Ter Morgan is in deep discussion with Mets Ter Jared on the landing strip just outside of the aparank’ of Mets Ter Collins.

Mets Tikin Samantha is fussing around her tsarra, her elaborate hairpiece is askew and she’s trying in vain to fix it while her tsarra flutter about uselessly. Danni detaches herself from the aforementioned group to stand beside Jensen.

It’s a chilly night out, and she wraps an arm around his waist.

“What do you suppose they’re talking about? She grumbles, shivering minutely.

“I have no idea. But I suppose it must be pressing, considering most of the guests have retired and the Mets Ter Jared seems to have waylaid Ter Morgan specifically.”

Jensen shifts a little closer, frustrated that he cannot hear. He never got to speak with the second primary of Tun Padalecki again that evening, and who is to say that he’ll ever have another opportunity?

Mack needs someone reliable to contract her. And this man has moved up a ranking in the Ts’uts’ak overnight.

Jensen wonders if he’ll be able to smuggle a letter to him.

-

Jared leans in close to Ter Morgan, knowing the man is speaking quietly for the benefit of his Tikin and his various tsarra, all of whom are transitioning into various ‘meks for the journey back to Jeff’s aparank’ in the city.

“Jensen was very hard-earned, my Mets Ter. I know an Ishkhanut’yun such as yourself has access to the most lovely of bavakanin in the Empire.” Jared smirks brightly. “Access, yes. But not to the one I currently desire.”

Jeff chuckles to himself, clapping a familiar hand on Jared’s broad shoulder. “My boy, I sat through your release ceremony almost twenty and five years ago, and you’re even more headstrong than I could have ever predicted.”

“When I contracted Jensen, it was a favor to his father, Alan, of Tegh Ackles, in the city of Khot. He was contracted tsarra to me, you see, worked in the mines with his wife.” Jeff scratches absently at his beard. “He was a scared man when he came to me, because his young wife was bavakanin, and she was facing many--forcible, contracts, so to speak. Ideally, they wanted her as hachuyk’, but she was just a child. Natural-born. Just wanted to start a family.”

Jared wrinkles his forehead, can’t understand where the Ter is going with this. “Did he ask you to contract them together? For your mines?”

Jeff smiles. “Something of that sort. My father owned holdings in the mines, and passed many of those down to the first primary, my elder brother. He provided me with holdings in the Ferma, and bade me do as I pleased. My father delivered Alan to me as a gift, when I was but four and ten. We were the same age and when he met Donna, he made me promise him that I would contract their children, when they came of age.”

Jeff adjusted his manyak tiredly. “He was a good friend of mine. I could do him no less. The mines are rough work for tsarra, and I think he knew it was likely their time would be limited. And he wanted someone he trusted to contract the kids, because he guessed they would be bavakanin, like their mother.”

Jared nods in understanding, then. “You think me a cruel Mets Ter, then? That I would subjugate the bavakanin?”

Jeff shakes his head, aware that though he may know this azniv well, he is second in ranking on the Ts’uts’ak, and therefore very heavy-handed.

“I think nothing of the sort, my Mets Ter. I only wish to be sure the boy will be treated well, if I am to transfer his contract over to you. My word means a lot to me.”

Jared can respect this. He is a man of his word, and has always found that adhering to that makes his life that much more cut and dry.

“I will discuss this more at length when I visit T’yer in the next fortnight to commune with you over your balance sheets. And I will talk with the bavakanin myself.” Jared makes an affirmative noise in the back of his throat, more for his own benefit than for the Ter’s.

“If you would be so kind, my Ter, to allow him to become more informed of me, and by extension, the ways of Tun Padalecki. It would help if he is familiar with me when we next speak.”

Jeff inclines his head, acknowledging that he will carry out the order.

Jared makes the sign of the blessing for the Ter and the Ter responds in kind.

“And, if you please,” he adds, as the Ter is waving in the direction of his Tikin, “make sure that he is unsullied by the time I see him next. Pleasantries aside, Ter, I think you know I’ve made my claim.”

Jeff smile is tight lipped as he dips his head in agreement. He looks slightly irked, but mostly saddened, as if he is losing something he thought highly of.

Jared watches the man board his elaborate ‘mek, muraled with the krel, the crest of Tun Morgan. He thought he saw the dark blonde head of his bavakanin, but he is sure that was only wishful thinking.

He turns to see his household tsarra waiting quietly for him, Retta stepping forward to frown at him in the night.

“What business do you have with Ter Morgan that couldn’t wait until a daylight hour?” Jared guffaws, sure that his own mayr would be pleased with how invested Retta is in his every action. He walks alongside her, arm entangled in hers, quietly biding her to mind her step.

“I’ve come to admire a tsarra in his household. I wish to have his contract transferred to my name.” She hums in her throat.

“You can’t just take every pretty thing you see, Jared.” She offers, her voice reflective. “And why not?” He wonders aloud, strong white teeth flashing in her direction.

“I see no reason not to surround myself with beauty, Retta. I’m not a barbaric contractor. I’ve always been a good Mets Ter, have I not?”

Retta hums noncommittally once more.

“You’ve always had a nasty habit of seeing something shiny and then grabbing at it.” Jared laughs. He likes to get what he wants. He doesn’t see why Retta keeps harping on him so. She’s always allowed him to have his way in things.

He’s azniv, he’s entitled to his way in all matters.

“Do you remember Gabe?” Jared’s face contorts, and his steps falter momentarily. He remembers the dark haired, bright eyed tsarra he had first seen with his Ter in the city of Lk’yel, in T’yer. Jared was six then, almost newly released, rambunctious in that permissible way all azniv youth are.

The boy was pretty, dewy face and dark blue eyes all swallowed up in his big face. He’d played hide and seek when Jared had imperiously asked if he would like to join. Jared had lost his father and brother in the shuffle, and separated the young tsarra from his Contractor in the process.

He remembers being found, his father’s face rigid with fear, and reprimanded sharply. Jared was unperturbed, and tugged at the wrist of his new playmate.

“Hayr, I want this tsarra. I want to contract him. He’s fun. We could play games in the aparank’ in Lerrnayin.” Gabe’s big blue eyes had never wavered, hand clasped tightly in Jared’s own. He had known, even then, what contracting entailed.

Gerald Padalecki had never been one to deny his children anything accept the most dangerous, and young azniv held more power than even they could begin to understand.

“Sereli mek, I am Azniv Mets Ter Gerald, senior primary of Tun Padalecki, in Lerrnayin. I would have you contracted in my house, as a household tsarra, for my boy here, Jared.”

Jared had chimed in then, poking his tongue through the hole in his mouth his lost tooth had wrought. “I am Mets Ter Jared, second primary of Tun Padalecki, and I’d like it very much if you’d come live with me so we could play every day.”

The arrangements had been made that same day, and Gabe had waved goodbye to his family, and the Ter and Tikin he had grown up with. He had never before left T’yer. Jared had been close to Gabe for ten years after that, and the boy had flourished in Lerrnayin.

And then his father died.

He had been crushed. It was not customary for tsarra taken so young from their families to maintain contact, and so Gabe had received the news secondhand. He had never recovered from the blow, sequestering himself and in later years, wedding a fellow tsarra, and starting a family himself.

Jared scrubbed his hand across his face at the memory.

“I was a child, Retta. I’ve never taken another tsarra so young ever again. Gabe and his family are still contracted by mine. I’ve done them no wrong.”

Retta pats his hand consolingly as she sits beside him in his personal ‘mek, his brother and father having already departed.

“I know vordi. But you’re so strong, Jared. Sometimes you break the things you want.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> Arev (ah-rev)- Sun  
> Mak’ur- (mah-coor)- Holy Book  
> kusakron- (koos-ah-croon) monk  
> Hamalsaran (hah-mall-sah-ran) University

Mack’s never been to T’yer before. She’s never really left Jur at all, and she’s nervous to travel. Jensen has informed her that she has some time yet before she must be contracted under the law, but she’s still nervous, still tucks her long blond hair behind her ears with shaking hands.

“What if I’m not found pleasing Jen? What if I mess something up or disrespect a Mets Ter accidentally??” Her voice is increasing in anxiety and volume and Jensen looks up from where he’s dressing in the colors of Tun Morgan for his daily commute to the aparank’ in T’yer.

He’s allowed special dispensation from his Ter to commute to his home in Jur and back to T’yer every day. He knows this is not likely to continue forever, especially because Mets Ter Jared seemed so interested in his contract at the gathering at the Collins aparank’.

Jensen doesn’t want to frighten Mack with how soon he needs her to be contracted. Doesn’t want her to feel like she is a burden. Jensen is ever fearful he will not do right by her.

The colors of Tun Morgan are cream and light grey, and he adjusts his ash colored slacks before making sure his shirt is buttoned to his neck.

He turns to face Mack, her pretty blue eyes blinking up at him.

He wishes she weren’t so clearly bavakanin, so that her life might be less stressful. He kisses her on the cheek.

“Don’t be scared sereli mek. Listen, you can list the rankings of the Ts’uts’ak in order, can’t you? I can’t. So you tell me. What’s the order?”

Mack shyly smiles, wringing her hands in front of her. Jensen knows that reciting facts has always centered her, always helped her compose herself.

“Mets Ter Gerald, senior primary of Tun Padalecki.

Mets Ter Jared, second primary of Tun Padalecki, formerly of third ranking.

Mets Ter Jeff, first primary of Tun Padalecki, formerly of second ranking.

Mets Ter Rex, senior primary of Tun Murray, currently overseas

Mets Ter Chad, first primary of Tun Murray, interim fourth in lieu of his hayr

Mets Ter William, senior primary of Tun Kane

Mets Ter Christian, first primary of Tun Kane--”

Jensen stops her there, knowing she could probably go on for years.

He’s got almost ten minutes until he needs to leave, so he sits down next to Mack. “So I have a question. How come, when I was in Lerrnayin a few weeks ago, there were only about five Tuns at the gathering?

Jensen’s genuinely confused. He was raised in a small city in a non-relevant district of the Empire, but he thinks that there have to be more Tuns than that involved in the business sector.

Mack’s eyes are gleaming, she loves to regale Jensen with all of her knowledge. Jensen smiles fondly at her, ruffling her hair.

“There aren’t many azniv in the Empire, because all azniv are born in the year of the Arev, and it is an unpredictable year, which is why there can be large gaps between the release ceremonies of some children. It’s an old wives tale, now, but your child is considered blessed by the Gods if they are conceived during the Arev year, or released then.”

Jensen’s enraptured. He knew a decent amount about the azniv, it’s difficult not to, but he’s pleased with Mack’s history lesson all the same.

“According to the Mak’ur, azniv are blessed with the ability to communicate with the gods. Therefore, they were granted the ability to reign over tsarra, and their rule is considered sovereign. The majority of the population is tsarra, and much of what makes up the remaining is yntrel. And though yntrel have high-ranking government positions, they’re not in charge. So,only the most influential azniv attend meetings such as the one Ter Morgan was invited to.”

Mack shakes her head thoughtfully. “They’re all uncommonly pretty and intelligent, and they all live for ages and ages longer than the tsarra do, so I suppose there’s merit in the claims.”

Mack stands up, unfolding her long legs and stretching them out. She pauses, ears cocked. “Mets Ter Morgan’s ‘mek is here for you Jen.” She stands on tiptoe and throws her arms around his neck.

“Tell me about your day when you get home!”

Jensen wants to have definitive news for her when he returns.

Danni is in wait for him when he descends, her cream colored gown dragging against the ground as she runs over to him.

“Mets Ter Jared has just landed, she says, adjusting the ash-colored jacket she wears in honor of the Tun colors.

Jensen stumbles and lands rather heavily against her.

“I knew he was visiting, but I didn’t think it would be so soon!”

Danni grins and reaches up to unbutton the top button on Jensen’s shirt.

“Gods, Jen, you don’t want to look like a kusakron, you’re not household tsarra, you’re to be his bavakanin.” Danni drags him through the side doors of the aparank’, much better versed than he about the secret passages and tunnels that run through the place.

She ushers him through to her rooms, walls covered in news clippings and swatches of lace and fabric, bed unkempt and disorderly.

“Sit down, you big kapkel.” She attacks his eyes with kohl, motioning for him to “look up at the ceiling and stop squirming.”

She’s immensely pleased that he’s retained the metallic liner around his eyes and pinches his cheeks gently so that they’re flushed with color. “Alright. He’s in a meeting with the Mets Ter right now, but he’s been in there for almost an hour, so I think they may be close to finishing.”

“I’ve got to go see to the Mets Tikin, she says she has a really bad headache, but I warrant she’s just irritated that Mets Ter Jared is here, partially over you.”

Danni shrieks a little with joy and throws her arms around his waist tightly. “Did you remember all your studies? Remember, he hates being compared to the first primary. That’s the most important.”

She releases him then, scurrying down the hallway, and Jensen thinks he’s damned lucky to have a friend like her. Some tsarra are cutthroat, fighting to be contracted by the most powerful of azniv, and he feels blessed to not be surrounded by people like that.

He’s helping Sarah rearrange the furniture in the Mets Sahr, and he’s got his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his lips pursed in thought.

“Sarah!” He calls out heedlessly. Sarah is in charge of the household tsarra, and she takes her job very seriously. She doesn’t usually talk to bavakanin, she thinks they’re “useless toys made for looking pretty,” but she’s shorthanded because Jared is in the aparank’ and all her regular tsarra are otherwise occupied.

Jensen’s tired of lugging tables and chairs all over the floor, and he has no idea where Danni, or any of the other Tun Morgan bavakanin are located.

He’s turning around, in search of Sarah, because she’s never answered, and he smacks straight into the chest of the Mets Ter himself.

He catches Jensen around his wrists and steadies him automatically, and Jensen is gobsmacked.

“Just the gravich’ I was looking for,” Jared smiles, having yet to release his wrists. Jensen pulls his arms away suddenly and genuflects, making the sign of the blessing for the azniv.

“By my leave,” Jared offers, smile in his voice.

He takes Jensen by the elbow and guides him to a sofa (one Jensen just dragged across the floor, by himself, he might add) and smiles congenitally in his direction.

“I think you know that I’m here to transfer your contract into my name. I live in Lerrnayin, usually--”

Jensen interrupts, doing so hurriedly because he does not know if that’s allowed.

“Your aparank’ familiar is located in Lerrnayin, but you own one in every district, two in Antarr and Avaz, and two in Garun if you count your family aparank’.”

Jensen blushes, but the Mets Ter looks more amused than anything, so he prattles on. “You are second primary, and the third primary of Tun Padalecki is Mets Tikin Megan, who has been studying at the Hamalsaran in Hosank’.”

“Your favorite food is goat, and you were recently elevated to second in processional on the Ts’uts’ak, just behind senior primary Mets Ter Gerald, your father, and above the first primary, your brother Mets Ter Jeff.”

Jensen has deliberately mentioned Jared’s usurpation of his brother’s ranking, hoping this will be a beneficial comparison. Jared’s smile is broad, almost as broad as when he’s cackling with Mets Ter Chad.

Jensen takes this as a good sign.

Jared’s hand descends upon his cheek and Jensen stiffens underneath the warmth.

He wonders if this man means to take him as a hachuyk’, and he’s scared because he doesn’t wanted to bartered and passed amongst the azniv like some kind of trophy.

Some of his apprehension must show on his face, because the Mets Ter leans forward and smiles. “You have freckles sereli mek,” he says quietly, and Jensen flushes at the compliment. “I’ve discussed it with your Mets Ter, and I would like for you to transition with me to Lerrnayin as soon as possible.”

He straightens in his seat, fingertips pressed to his lips. “I’ll allow you to say goodbye to all your friends here, if you would like,” he offers kindly, his eyes warm.

“I have a few--clauses,” Jensen offers, quietly, hands tucked in his lap.

The Mets Ter’s eyes look amused and he waves his hand for Jensen to proceed.

“I would like a guaranteed contract for the second primary of my Tegh, my sister Mackenzie. She’s--she’s bavakanin, and she’s very smart, she can teach yerekha, or anything else you might need--”

Jared raises a hand with a laugh. “I have no yerekha of my own yet Jensen, you needn’t worry. I am still looking for a Mets Tikin.”

Jensen bites his lip at that. “Does that mean--does that mean you have no need of her?” Jared’s bright grin slips and his brow furrows. “Gods, Jensen, no, that’s already taken care of. Her contract is under my name. She need only accompany you. Have you any further...clauses?”

Jensen’s can’t help the squeal (Gods, Danni is rubbing off on him) that escapes him at the news. The Mets Ter lets out a long laugh in response, and Jensen thinks it is a pleasant sound.

“I would like it very much if you could, if it’s not too much trouble, if you could contract Danni--Danneel, too. We are a very good pair together, and she’s my closest friend and will be very lonely if I leave for Lerrnayin and she remains in T’yer.”

Jared rubs at his forehead as he unfolds his tall frame from the couch. “Consider it done. I will make it worthwhile for Tun Morgan to spare me these bavakanin.”

He takes Jensen gently by the arm, patting his hand soothingly. “Should you like to tell Danni the news, or shall I?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> ghekavar- (gay-cav-ar) tsarra head  
> dustr- (doos-tair)- affectionate diminutive for a girl

Jared’s very acclimatized to getting exactly what he wants, when he wants it.

That’s not to say that he is over-indulged, it’s more an extension of the rights bequeathed on him as azniv.

He furrows his brow as he takes in the papers strewn across his desk. He’s contracted three bavakanin, on a whim, when he’s just been elevated a ranking in the Ts’uts’ak, and has extremely pressing matters to attend to for his father. You’d imagine he would have much to focus on.

But, Jensen’s such a pretty thing, prettier than any tsarra has the right to be. Jared reclines in his chair, allowing himself the brief luxury of daydreaming about that pretty face. His lashes curl up against his cheeks just so, and his lips are eternally red and puffy.  Jared wants to be the one to bend him over his desk and fuck the perky globes of his ass.

Jared could easily take what he wanted, he knows Jeff must've had a taste of Jensen a time or two, with lips like that it’s a wonder Tikin Samantha had not lost her mind.

Jared’s never been a fan or forcing tsarra to do his bidding, sexually. He prefers for it to be a mutually beneficial agreement, and he’s befuddled as to how to present the issue to Jensen.

He claps his hands and rouses himself from his daydream. It’s no concern for now, he has ages to think of a method of action.

He rises smoothly and rings for the ghekavar of his household tsarra, Katin. Katin is a matronly woman of forty and seven, and she’s been with his family almost as long as Retta. “Katin, I’d like for you to organize your household so that they can be ready to travel. I’m to journey to Avaz today in order to meet with Mets Ter Kane, and I’ll be gone for an extended trip.”

Katin nods, lips pressed together in thought. “Any estimate on how many you think you’ll need?” Jared’s no good with things like this. He’d dress himself, were he allowed, but it is disgraceful for a Mets Ter to travel anywhere without a retinue of tsarra at his disposal.

“I’d say thirty of your household would suffice. I’m no woman, Katin, and they tend to bring a 100 or more.” Katin smiles, her face warm. “Alright, I’ll get them together now then. That’ll leave me an excess to manage the aparank’ while you’re away.” She kneels and quickly departs, aware of how much Jared values time management.

He rings for Brock, the ghekavar of his parade tsarra, immediately following. Brock saunters, Jared wishes there were a better way to describe it, but he saunters into Jared’s offices with that flirtatious grin and smooth skin that tempted Jared when he was but five and ten years old.

“My Mets Ter,” he offers, the tight red shirt clinging to young musculature.

“Brock, I need you gather the parade tsarra, we are leaving for Avaz today and I need everyone dressed and packed for the trip. It will be an extended trip, and will most likely include many unfortunate gatherings at aparank’s.” Jared massages his temples in preemptive agony.

“Will all your bavakanin be available and on hand?” Brock dips his head courteously. “More or less my Mets Ter. You’ve recently acquired new bavakanin, the three from T’yer?” He cocks his head inquisitively but Jared knows it is all a ruse. Brock knows everything about everything.

“Yes. The youngest one must remain in Lerrnayin. She’s not quite old enough to be fully contracted. Jensen and Danneel will, of course, be accounted for.” Brock’s smile is like daggers. “By your leave.”

He’s off then, footsteps scurrying in the direction of the tsarra apartments. Jared begins to pack his papers neatly, already groaning at the level of work he must dedicate to exposing the fraudulent schemes in the Ferma holdings.

His disease does not abate when a tsarra delivers a holo-gram to him, and he plugs the chip into his projector as his brother’s face fills the screen.

His brother is paused in mid-air, pixelated approximation looking serious. Jared leans down and rattles off his credentials into the voice analyzer. “Mets Ter Jared, second primary of Tun Padalecki.”

His brother’s voice begins, animated and hoarse, as if he has been talking himself sick. Jared thinks, not for the first time, that Jeff really needs to begin his search for a Mets Tikin.

“Jay, I know you plan to begin your expedition soon, and I wish you the best of luck. Father has sent me to Garun to monitor the upkeep, as most of the actual hands on work is done at the Ferma holdings stationed here. By your leave, father wishes for you to convene with me in Garun on the final leg of your journey. Respond to this as soon as you have seen it. May the Gods grant you favor.”

Jared’s spine cracks as he reaches to close and eject the holo-gram, but Jeff’s voice continues unexpectedly. “I wish you no ill will for your advancement over me in the Ts’uts’ak.” He pauses, his face hardening into something more ill-disposed. “But, p’vok’rik’vok, you would be remiss to think that I do not intend to bury you behind me once more. Let the games begin.”

Jared’s mouth aches, he’s grinning so abundantly.

By the Gods, he loves a good hunt.

He rustles up a household tsarra to pack all of the ceremonial clothing he will need for this trip. He makes a mental note to himself to remember to visit with Mets Tikin Genevieve once he lands in Avaz.

His father has long believed that their allied Tuns will be of great benefit to one another. There is the matter of Gen being hopelessly enamored with him, but she does not know of his preference for the male figure.

It’s not something Jared needs to hide, it’s biological, but only homosexual tsarra men are blessed (some might contend this point,) with the ability to produce slick, like a woman, for their partner. This allows them to have intercourse with other tsarra men, yntrel men and azniv men, but if Jared wants heirs, he cannot have them with a tsarra, and so he must take a woman, as neither yntrel nor azniv men can breed.

He is fond of Gen. She small and witty and his hands span the entire length of her waist.

He’s a man, he’s not yet in the grave. He can appreciate a fine body.

He strides out of his apartments and heads towards the bavakanin sector of his aparank’. He wants to ask Jensen if he would like to travel with Jared in his own ‘mek.

It’s a thinly veiled excuse to see the other man, but he would also like to get to know him better. The boy provided him with ‘clauses,’ something no other sane tsarra would have thought to do. Jared admits that he’s got a bit of a soft spot for the boy, but he didn’t ask for anything outrageous, so Jared considers it a trifle.

The door to his rooms is ajar when Jared approaches, and Jared pauses uncertainly, not sure whether or not he should march inside--they’re his rooms, after all, or respect Jensen’s right to privacy. The answer is made for him when he hears a soft voice emanating from the area.

He knows this is Jensen’s little sister, the one he was so willing to sell himself for. “Why can’t I come Jensen? I’ve never even been to Lerrnayin, and now you’re leaving for another district.” Jared can hear the tears in her voice. “I’m nervous to be in this big aparank’ all alone.”

Jensen sighs a little and Jared watches him lean forward earnestly. “Hush, dustr. Listen. You’re too young to be fully contracted, and it’s illegal for the Mets Ter to take you and use you as if you are his, fully. I can’t change that. Most of the household will be gone, but you’ll be able to study so much here, and you don’t have to worry about constant explosions from the mines.”

Jensen’s face softens into a sad smile. “And you can study so many different books here. When Mets Ter Jared has yerekha, you just might know enough to teach them something.”

Jared hears the gentle laughter of Jensen’s sister and quickly pantomimes footsteps, rapping smartly on Jensen’s door.

Jared pushes the door open and watches as both siblings kneel delicately before him.

“By my leave,” he says, and leans his hip against the doorjamb.

“Jensen, I was just going to ask whether or not you’d like to ride to Avaz with me, in my ‘mek.” Jensen colors prettily. “Shouldn’t I--is it better if I ride in the other ‘meks, with the bavakanin?”

Jared chuckles. “If you’d like that, I certainly won’t stop you. But I would much rather have your company. These rides are long and boring, and I’ll already be bored senseless for the duration of this journey, as it is.”

The corner of Jensen’s mouth quirks up. “Alright. I’ll be the most annoying travel partner you’ve had yet.”

Jared guffaws, grinning down at the slight boy. Jared nods at Mackenzie then, her eyes big and bright, face blanched.

“Are you shy, sereli mek? Don’t be afraid of me, I don’t bite...often.” The girl gasps a little and clutches at her heart. Jensen looks at him reproachfully. “Don’t scare her like that, she’s never been away from home before, Mets Ter.”

There’s a teasing lilt to Jensen’s voice that makes him think he can’t be in too much trouble. “I’ll make sure Jensen sends you holo-grams every week.” Her eyes narrow. “Every day?” Jared attempts, feeling a little bit like a lamb in front of a lioness. She nods, pertly, and Jared is inexplicably pleased.

“I’ll be in front of the landing pad when you’ve packed, gravich’.”

Jared can hear Mackenzie muttering, “gravich’, Jensen?” As he walks down the corridor.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> nakhnik (nagh-neek)- birthright  
> Astvats (ahst-vahts) Primary God  
> Sirekan (see-ray-kahn) Love (of one’s life)  
>  Dzhokk’ (Duh-zawk)- Hell  
> rrazmakan (rahz-mah-kahn) Military tsarra

Jensen may be hyperventilating slightly.

Or, he could be dead, and all of this could be a figment of his unconscious spirit, which is quickly beginning its ascent to Yerkink’y, this very moment.

Jensen has a paroxysm of guilt suddenly, at the fact that he’s died and left Mack all alone, to fend for herself, in a treacherous world she’s unfamiliar with.

Mets Ter Jared’s laughter brings him back to himself, and he smiles sheepishly, fully aware that he’s being ridiculous.

Jensen fingers the upholstery in the ‘mek, and it’s soaring through the air at breathtaking speeds, at least, Jensen imagines, because he’s too afraid to gawk out of the window himself. The interior of the ‘mek is done in the colors of Tun Padalecki, silver and black, with a splash of Padalecki crimson thrown in the mix. Jensen is wearing clothing gifted to him in his new Tun colors, and he’s recently had his golden eyeliner augmented to fit his Tun, and it’s a glinting silver now.

It’s not permanent, unless the Mets Ter wishes it so, but he hopes that his new Contractor finds him pleasing. So that he doesn’t regret fulfilling all of the additional clauses Jensen laid out for him.

Jared’s finger curves under his chin and brings his face up towards the light. His Mets Ter is a handsome man, Jensen thinks rather swiftly. He’s sprawled on his side of the ‘mek, loose limbs pliant, one arm stretched over the back of his seat, long dark hair brushing gently against his jaw.

His hazel eyes are filled with a warm mirth, and Jensen realizes belatedly that he must be staring.

“I’m sorry, my Mets Ter. I warned you that I would not be the best travel company, did I not?”

Jared leans forward, eyes crinkling happily. “You’re fine Jensen. I didn’t think we would be discussing philosophy for our first time in one another’s company, anyway. Jensen feels a little relieved. He’s got no idea what to say to such an educated azniv.

And this isn’t even a lesser man. He’s second in the Ts’uts’ak and he’s got more money than the gods. Jensen is so far out of his depth here he feels as if he’s drowning. “Why are we having this expedition, my Mets Ter, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Jensen watches his face cloud over, and immediately he wants to backtrack, force all of the words released back down his throat--he cannot be an imbecile and ruin this for Mack. It’s her best chance.

But his Mets Ter is smiling again, complacent look back on his face. “I’ve got some business issues to straighten out. Remind me, sereli mek, to never delegate what I can better do myself.” Jensen watches him settle, elbows on his knees. He looks thoughtful, just before he speaks, and Jensen gets the sense that the man never really settles down to talk to people.

“It’s tiresome, always having to be the bad guy.” He holds his tongue momentarily, brow furrowed. “I’ve said that wrong. Not the bad guy, Jensen, but the one who makes the hard decisions.” Jared runs a hand through his hair, making it slightly unruly. “It’s difficult to have to play the executioner.” He smiles, abruptly, and it’s a savage thing, that grin, makes Jensen think of a wild animal.

“But I do so love the thrill. I like to win, Jensen, and I make sure I continuously do so.” Jensen looks down at his clasped hands and glances back up, boldly. “Is it worth it? Does it matter? In the end?”

Jared looks over at him quizzically, as if he doesn’t understand why the question in pertinent. “Of course it is. It’s my nahknik, Jensen. When I was released, twenty and four years ago, I was destined for this. The second primary in an azniv household usually has lesser responsibilities, but each brother is able to make a strong name for himself, if he so chooses.” Jared’s introspective face slides into that feral grin again.

If Astvats wills it, I will supercede the first primary of my Tun in all regards.” Jared flicks the curtains to his ‘mek open a fraction to gaze at the clouds. “I am champion in all things, gravich.’ I could settle for nothing less.” Jensen is floored. He’s never known such passion. Never known such idealism and determination could be the focal point of a man’s devotion.

Jensen leans his head into the palm of his hand, and tilts spring-green eyes up at the Mets Ter. “I can appreciate determination. I don’t--” his face blushes brightly. “I’m tsarra. I don’t have big dreams, or big plans. But I, I look after my sister, my second primary, because she’s all I have left. She’s scared, to be alone. To be a burden. So I suppose I would do anything it took, for her.”

Jensen falls silent and thinks that this is an inadequate answer.

A Mets Ter of this degree has no need of his romantic notions. He practically owns full districts in the Empire, could buy and sell Jur twice over if he took a fancy to it.

Jared presses fingertips to his lips.

“Determination is the key. I think. Everyone ought to have something they live and die for. Right now, I have my nahknik. My pride. My Tun.” He smiles kindly down at Jensen. “Someday, I hope to have my own family. Yerekha. Sirekan.” Jared flushes.

Jensen stifles a small squeal. His Mets Ter, this great azniv of twenty and four, has just flushed in his direction, made himself vulnerable for Jensen’s passing ideals.

Jensen feels lightheaded and fears he may be hyperventilating.

Again.

Jensen doesn’t have much time to think over this turn of events, because the ‘mek is suddenly struck so turbulently, the entire vehicle shudders. Jensen’s left side slams horribly into the metallic side paneling, and a small whimper escapes him at the brisk rush of pain.

His Mets Ter is at his side in a heartbeat, large hand curving up to feel at Jensen’s bruised stomach. Jensen arches painfully when Jared's fingers brush against his battered ribcage.

Jared looks down at him, horrified, and Jensen bites at his lower lip silently, afraid to show the Mets Ter agony, anything to cause him further distress. Jared’s in explosive motion, suddenly, standing up and strolling to the control room, where his tsarra pilot is rapidly speaking to the co-pilot next to him.

Jensen can’t breathe very well but he remains upright long enough to creep towards the ajar door.

“What in all of Dzhokk’ might that have been? Save your bullshit excuses men, I require answers. Jasper?”

He turns to face his pilot, and the tsarra looks afflicted. My Mets Ter, it seems as if there was a disturbance. A projectile hit us as seventy-five warps per minute, sir. Your other ‘meks remain unharmed.”

His co-pilot speaks up, a bit more audacious. “Mets Ter we assume it is targeting your person. What would you have us do?”

Jared’s head swivels instantly in his direction, and he’s in no shape to hide himself adequately, so he settles for keeping his lips pursed, eyes never leaving the Mets Ter’s face.

Jared turns to his pilots, eyes hardened. “We will take a detour, to Avaz. Lead us away from my tsarra, and contact my other ‘meks to assure them all is well. Tell them we are taking a more scenic route. Pull up the projector so I might make a holo-gram to Mets Ter Kane. And send out a transmission to my aparank’ in Lerrnayin. I’d like my personal rrazmakan notified and dispatched.”

Jared clenches his fists, out of the sight of his men.

But Jensen can see the tendons flexing, can feel the anger radiating from the azniv. Barely leashed rage.

“Immediately. There must be no delay.”

The Mets Ter strides from the control room, hazel eyes blazing, and Jensen does not realize that he’s shrank from the man until Jared’s crossing over to him.

He kneels, eye level to Jensen, and a soft breath escapes him. The fire is just barely banked in his eyes, and Jensen gets the sense that if this man were to liberate his passions, there would be a fear such as he has never before seen.

Jensen’s never had anyone actively work so as to not frighten him before. He’s been terrified many times in his life.

Terrified when his father came home from the mines with a debilitating leg injury, one that was never to heal.

When his parents perished in the calamity that befell the mines and left Jensen and Mack nothing but debt.

When the other Ters that Ter Morgan cavorted with would pinch his ass, spread him out against desks and seek to rut against him. And he knew he could do nothing, waited until Ter Morgan inevitably rescued him, reprimanded his friends, the yntrel. Sent him on his way.

But not once, has anyone reigned anything in, as this azniv is attempting so stringently for him. Jensen can almost touch the fury, it’s almost palpable.

“Jensen, lie down here. It isn’t good to sit so hunched like that. We’re taking a detour. I’m going to transmit a holo-gram to the Mets Ter we are visiting in Avaz, to ascertain the problem.”

He reaches down, abruptly, and cups a smooth palm around Jensen’s cheeks. “More excitement than you planned on seeing today, eh gravich’?”

Jensen nods, head still ensconced in that warm palm. Jensen’s lashes flutter closed gently, and he drags them open once more with some hardship, to see the Mets Ter looking down at him, lips in a thin line, eyes laser-focused. Jensen wants to inquire as to what’s wrong, but the moment is gone and the Mets Ter steps away.

And Jensen finds himself wondering, not for the first time, about just what kind of man the second primary of Tun Padalecki is. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> merrats mard (may-rahts-mard) dead man  
> Kapuyt (kah-poot) Mountain range  
> Andzrevits’ kiny (anz-ray-veetz key-nay) Raining Woman  
> Havak’uyt’ (Hah-vahk-oot) Government

Jared’s going to commit murder.

He doesn’t say that lightly, doesn’t make a vagary about very authentic threats.

He’s azniv, ranking in the Ts’uts’ak secure and undisputed. He could kill a man on the streets and people would apologize for the inconvenience of him having to commit the act himself.

Jared’s never utilized that power before. But if someone, some merrats mard, is so contemptuous of Jared’s influence, of his goddamned jurisdiction, then he’s got no other option than to show him what a grave error he’s executed today.

Jared glances over at where Jensen is sleeping, freckles standing out in stark relief in comparison to the blanched white of his fair skin. His blood is boiling again. He’s not supposed to let anything happen to this boy. He’s supposed to protect the innocent. Never meant to place him in harm’s way.

Jensen looks so young, body curled up protectively on his seat and Jared’s rage flares up disturbingly, and he takes several deep breaths in order to exercise the control his competitors say he’s infamous for. Jared strolls over to the adjoining office in his ‘mek, clicking the door closed quietly behind him.

Jared then crosses over to his desk, sliding the blank holo chip out of his pocket and inserting it into his projector screen. He arranges the cream colored papers on his onyx desk, inspects the intricate inlaid carvings for scratch marks.

He takes a moment to compose himself, not wanting to expend any righteous indignation at Kane, who does not deserve it.

“Christian. It would seem that I’ve got adversaries who are less than pleased that I’m investigating the discrepancy in the Ferma accounts. I’d advise you to stay sharp in your own dealings. I’ll be landing in Avaz shortly after my tsarra arrive, due to details I’ll discuss with you in person.” Jared transmits his message and then peeks out of the silver curtains obscuring his windows.

He can see the Kapuyt range from this distance, stretching through the valleys of Avaz in a serpentine manner. He hiked these when he was a boy. His father took he and Jeff, Jeff, who’d long been released at that time, a grown man with a smile like the sun.

Jared remembers the tsarra trailing behind them, carrying supplies and foodstuffs, and Jared, riding on his brother’s shoulders, clutching at brown strands of hair in his excitement, causing Jeff to curse under his breath with every step or two.

Mostly, Jared recalls sleeping under the stars, Jeff teaching him the highest points to see the beginning of the constellations. Learning how to pick out Anzrevitz’ Kiny amongst thousands of lesser beings. That’s how Jeff first explained to him what being azniv meant, when Jared was eight and didn’t understand why his tsarra playmates abased themselves before him.

“That’s what azniv is,” Jeff had said solemnly, arm cuddled around Jared’s smaller form. “You’re a body of light in a sea of anonymity.”

Jared had scrunched his forehead up, sat on Jeff’s chest and pouted. “S’what’s nonanimity” Jeff had chuckled for several minutes after that, dislodging Jared from his perch. “You’ll never need to know, Jare.” He’d turned back up to the sky then, eyes erratic as they traced patterns only he could see.

“You’ll be the brightest of ‘em all.”

Jared stumbled over to his open bar and poured himself a glass of voginery, on the rocks. Of course, he and Jeff hadn’t always stayed so pure. Jeff hadn’t needed to fight for anything, then. Jared had barely understood what being second primary meant, other than the fact that it was another set of words to bother with in his presentation.

Jared looks up from the swirling purple vortex in his glass. See’s Jensen’s words reflected back at him. Was it all worth it?

Jared downs the drink in one smooth gulp. Of course it is. It’s who he is. It’s how he’s been made.

Jared pushes open his office door and crosses over to Jensen. The bavakanin is beginning to stir, his body probably registering the difference in air pressure. Jared sits beside him helpfully, hands clasped on top of his knees.

Jensen’s eyes are the first to stir, and he gazes around blearily before they light on Jared. He sits up quickly, obviously disoriented about why he’s lying down when his Mets Ter is looking over at him. Lets out an extremely pained noise when he levers himself upwards, both hands going protectively to his side.

Glances at Jared with tears swimming in those eyes of malachite, and Jared’s affiance that he’s going to assassinate all involved is tripled ten fold.

Jared regains his composure by picturing how he’s going to accomplish it. He’s going to wear the blood of his enemies to the next gathering of the Ts’uts’ak, going to use the scarlet of the melee as the representation of the third color in Tun Padalecki.

Jared reaches out to Jensen and the tsarra leans into his touch, features a trifle confused. “My Mets Ter, are we--landing?” He bites at his lip. “Is it safe, now?”

Jared smiles, all teeth. “Of course, I wouldn’t let you disembark if I thought otherwise.” Jensen flushes and his eyes narrow. “Things could have changed while I was sleeping, Mets Ter.” His gaze is steely and Jared preens under the stare.

The wolves of the Havak’uyt’glare at him in much the same manner when it is time to convene. “Sheath your claws, bavakanin, and gather your things. We’re landing.” Jensen drops his eyes respectfully and begins to fold up the blanket he was using. Jared can see the strain this places on his side, his mouth pinched, back stiff.

Jared snags the blanket from him without a thought. “Have Danneel take you inside immediately, ask for Hannah. She is the head of Kane’s household tsarra, and she will escort you to the private doctor of the Tun.” Jensen’s head is dipped, in too much pain to look in Jared’s face, as custom dictates.

Jared’s ‘mek stutters to a halt and he’s the first at the landing doors. Jensen is right behind, swaying lightly on unsteady feet. Jared huffs out an impatient breath and swoops Jensen up in his arms, ignoring the protesting squeak coming from the tsarra. “My Mets Ter,” he begs, voice an octave too high.

“It’s improper--for you to carry me this way, in front of your tsarra--” Jared blinks down into Jensen’s slightly irritated face. “I determine what’s proper for myself, and my tsarra. And this is necessary right now.” Jared knows his voice books no further argument.

Jared can see Danni disembarking now, waving her hands in the air as she gestures to another tsarra. “Danni,” he calls out, absently noting that Jensen’s face has gone even more red. “Would you please accompany myself and Jensen into the aparank’, Jensen’s hurt his side on the trip and I’d like to have him checked out.”

Danni’s eyes are comically wild, and her bosom is heaving as if she’s just ran a race. “Y-yes, my Mets Ter.” She kneels hurriedly, gathering her long skirts in one hand as she sprints to keep up with Jared’s long stride. He watches in amusement as she shoots Jensen a loaded look, and the boy shrinks, however unintentionally, back into Jared’s embrace.

Kane’s tsarra are coming out, clad in Kane’s cream and forest green, chattering happily with friends they have undoubtedly not seen in some time. Jared sees Kane at the entrance to his Mets Sahr, smaller man’s face covered in a huge smile.

“Jare!” he hollers, southern-most district creating that distinct drawl. Jared wants to envelope his friend into a hug, but quickly remembers Jensen might not appreciate being jostled that way. Kane’s face dims when he spots Jared’s cargo.

Jared’s face is emotionless as Kane inquires about what’s wrong. “Turbulence in the air.” Kane’s own face smooths over and Jared knows he’s received his rushed holo-gram. Jared and Kane walk in side by side, and Jared remarks on how nice the weather is shaping up, and how excited he is to come and hike nearby. Kane grunts and exclaims in all the right places right up until Jared delivers Jensen safely in the arms of one of the Doctor’s aid tsarra.

Danni shoots him a mildly reproachful look, and Jensen just looks frightened, small white hand holding momentarily onto Jared’s darker one, and then he releases and looks straight ahead.

Jared watches them enter Kane’s medical wing and something heavy drops into his chest.

His voice is flat when he faces Kane, the shorter man’s eyes popping like fire and brimstone. “I’ll not be taken for a fool, Christian.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> voghjuyn (vogue-juhen) Welcoming Ceremony  
> Vormnankar (Vorm-nahn-kahr) Mural depicting Tun family history  
> Yergel (Yair-ghel) Musical party  
> Himn- (High-mean) Imperial Anthem   
> Arrajin (Ah-rah-jean) First (as in the first in ranking on the Ts’uts’ak)

Jensen’s entire waist is wrapped up in gauze, which is making it rather strenuous to breathe. However, it lends him an excuse to avoid talking to Danni, who is gripping his wrist so tightly he might as well rejoin the Doctor and have that examined, as well.

“Jensen Ross Ackles. You tell me what the hell happened on your journey.”

Jensen shrugs noncommittally. “I will beat you up myself, Jensen, and then I’ll hand deliver you back to Mets Ter Kane’s med wing, because I’m a caring friend.”

Jensen raises his brows at her savagery, and she grins, all malice. “There was some turbulence and it caught me off balance. I hit the metal panel and bruised myself up.” Jensen yawns in exhaustion. “Then I passed out. Honestly, you’re better off grilling Mets Ter Jared for information. Least he was conscious.”

Jensen can only be grateful Mack doesn’t know anything about this, considering she would be two seconds away from annihilating everything in her path. Danni looks dissatisfied, and that’s putting it lightly.

“I’m not going to bother you about this anymore, because you look like death warmed over. But as soon as you’re feeling better I expect you to tell me everything.” Her light brown eyes narrow over at him. “Even the parts that you’ve conveniently forgotten.” Jensen’s lips quirk up involuntarily, and he bites at his jaw to keep his face impassive.

“Alright, Danni, just, let me breathe a second.” Her hands wave around uselessly, and she locks them under her chin in semblance of a prayer. Jensen links arms with her as they walk, at his rather cumbersome gait, to where Tun Kane’s tsarra apartments are located.

“So,” she says, a half-hearted attempt to change the subject. “There’s a voghjuyn in honor of Mets Ter Jared’s arrival in Avaz this evening. Jensen looks startled. There’s a lot of planning that goes into these affairs, and they’ve only been in Avaz an hour, at most! Danni’s shaking her head frantically, and her smile is crinkling her eyes.

“Jen, Mets Ter Kane’s household tsarra have been planning this for weeks. We don’t have anything to do but to make sure our Mets Ter is dressed appropriately.” Jensen follows Danni into her temporary rooms, taking in the cream and deep green walls, and the elaborate Vormnankar of Tun Kane. Jensen runs his fingers over the parade of horses galloping through the Kapuyt range, and the trail of tsarra following in close proximity, all clothed in Tun colors.

Jensen’s never had a chance to inspect the Vormnankar of Tun Padalecki, yet he imagines it might be even more prodigious than this. Danni puts a hand on his sleeve, nodding next to him. “S’magnificent, isn’t it? There’s more throughout the apartments, and you can look at the entire thing in the Mets Sahr, later, if you’d like.”

Jensen would love to, actually, he’s always enjoyed history, and azniv history has always been littered with battles and wars, everything that’s brought them to this point, today. Jensen’s distracted, cocks his head in Danni’s direction. “Has the Mets Ter provided us with the order in which he would like the processional?” Danni’s smile is Cheshire then, red hair swinging wildly in her face.

“Yes.” Jensen knows she’s waiting with bated breath, is just dying to have Jensen ask her what it is. Jensen wants to make her squirm a little, but he’s just as obsessed with knowing as she is at telling, “What is it?”

Danneel pushes Jensen onto his new bed, mindful of the ache permeating his ribcage. “You and I are to be flanked on the right, and Brock and Carson on the left.” Her little nose wrinkles up, and Jensen wants to paint a photo of her, because Danni never looks more carefree as she does when she’s irritated about something.

“Brock’s always head of processional--” she holds up a hand in Jensen’s face, knowing what he’s undoubtedly about to say. “I know he’s head of parade, Jen, but you’d think he would realize that he ought to make it vary, from time to time!” Jensen’s not sure what’s got her so worked up, but then, Danni’s always more invested in the things they participate in exclusively, as bavakanin.

Jensen grabs Danni’s hand, calms her frenzy of movement. “You’re going to have to stuff me into my tsisakarg. I’ve got no range of motion.”

-

Jensen’s got to admit. Tun Padalecki colors make for a striking appearance in a processional. Not many Tuns choose black as a primary color, but Danni’s fiddling anxiously with his tsisakarg, and it’s all black, trimmed in leather and hemmed in metallic silver. Jensen’s slacks follow the same pattern, the only full silver accent being his metallic liner.

Danni’s gown is resplendent silver, soft sheen in contrast to Jensen’s dull metallic gleam. Her hair curls down her back in soft tendrils, and Jensen thinks she looks like a fairy. Danni sprays Jensen all over with silver dust, and Jensen coughs heavily, clutching his ribs, and wonders at the things he’s forced to do for the sake of beauty.

She claps her hands in child-like adoration. “Perfect. Perfect. We’re going to make the prettiest pair in the Mets Sahr. You can count on it.”

Jensen conjectures at Danni’s lack of abashment over her status. He asked her about it, one time, and she’d looked at him quizzically, brows raised. “It’s what I am, Jen. It makes me as much tsarra as it makes them azniv. It made my parents lives more comfortable that I got opportunities they didn’t have. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”

She had turned back to the flowers she was planting, patting her hands against the dirt. “I am, what they made me.”

Jensen loops his arm in Danni’s and tucks his free limb behind his back. It pains him to stand up as tall as he is accustomed to, but he does so regardless, knowing that any frailty will reflect poorly on his Tun. Danni guides him to the entrance of the Mets Sahr, and Jensen can hear the guests milling about, the rowdy sound of glasses tinkling together, Yergel singing the refrain to the Himn.

The other parade tsarra are lined up, anxiously adjusting their clothing, and he can see Dani fussing with her friend Sari, clipping her hair back from where it’s fallen in her face. Jensen is aware of the moment the Mets Ter approaches, because all chattering ceases and he can see Brock advance, two steps behind, handsome smile on his bright face.

Jared looks around, and Jensen watches as he makes an aborted attempt to adjust his manyak. Jensen stifles a laugh. The azniv seems to abhor the damn thing. He’s the only one of the party dressed in the third primary color of Tun Padalecki, red. His patmut’yun is all black with red trim, and he’s only got one splash of silver on him, a dull shine that comes from the pocket square on his breast.

Mets Ter’s eyes alight on him, and he beckons him forward, already glancing over Jensen’s head. He directs his gaze downward, even white smile coloring his features. “You look better rested. Is there any lasting damage?” Jensen genuflects and bows his head. “No, my Mets Ter. I’m a bit sore but I’ve been told this will pass.” Jared appears disquieted, mouth in a thin line.

“We’ll keep an eye out for that, then.” Jensen dips his head in acknowledgement and Jared turns to face the closed door of the Sahr. “Where is Danneel? Position yourselves, this obnoxious affair should begin any second now.” Jensen snorts out a laugh and slaps a hand over his mouth, mortified. The Mets Ter winks at him, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“It’s my Voghjuyn. I’ll talk about it any way I please.” He cups Jensen’s chin in his hand briefly and motions for Danni to draw near them. Jensen watches as Brock flanks Jared on his left side, and looks quickly away from the appraisal Brock is delivering in his direction. Danni’s smiling, bouncing up and down on her toes as she grasps at Jensen’s arm.

Jared looks down at Jensen once again, and Jensen’s astounded to receive this much unbridled attention at once. “Look sharp,” he quips, teasing smile twisting his lips up.

Jensen watches the doors slide open, and he takes the last few precious seconds to glance at the tapestry covering Tun Kane’s walls. The ceiling is designed in a high arch, and the very top is painted in Tun colors, swirls of cream and green, intermingling beautifully. Danni sniffs beside him. “Mets Ter Jared has his Mets Sahr ceiling depicting Yerkink’y.”

Jensen hasn’t the time to tell Danneel not to be so pretentious when he hears the haghordavar clearing his throat.

“Presenting our guest of honor, Mets Ter Jared, second primary of Tun Padalecki, Holder of titles in Lerrnayin and all districts further reaching.” Jensen narrows his eyes reproachfully as Jared winks (winks, right in the middle of his introduction!) and strides forward, benevolent smile, to thunderous applause.

And as the procession continues, and Jensen and Danni are mingling throughout the crowd, Jensen leans over to ask why their Mets Ter was so decisively well-received. She shakes her head in that fond way she has whenever Jensen fails to grasp a simple concept.

“They know he’s to be Arrajin. And he’s especially popular, because he’s only second primary of his Tun.”

Jensen’s heart speeds up a fraction. Power yields to power. 


	13. Chapter 13

Jared loathes the processional with every fiber of his being. When he was younger, he adored being the center of attention, and some part of him preens with it in this moment.

But he could take it or leave it, now.

He smiles winningly at all of the Tikins and Mets Tikins roaming around the Mets Sahr, eyes narrowed in on him like prey. He feels vaguely like the walls are closing in. He can see Chad lounging at his designated tables, looking far more sober than the last time that Jared saw him. He’s got his favorite bavakanin enthroned on his lap, young boy fiddling with the rings on Chad’s hand.

Jared snorts to himself. Chad’s the epitome of azniv decadence. Jared hasn’t got any problem with public displays of affection, in fact, he’s been known to engage in it a time or two. He’s aware of how often Chad utilizes it for shock value. His friend can see him now, and the sleeves of his patmut’yun stretch as he waves enthusiastic hands in Jared’s direction.

Jared watches as the gathered smile in his direction, and laugh benevolently at his indiscretions with Chad. They recognize he’s primed to take his father’s ranking as Arrajin, and he’s young and virile. They can find no fault with him.

This is the most liberating feeling Jared’s ever had, and he’s never had many restrictions placed on him to begin with.

He glances slightly behind him, inspecting his parade tsarra. They’re all mingling beautifully, Brock is doing what he does best, chattering aimlessly to Ters and Tikins who think he’s just adorable. Jensen’s on his other side, eyes downcast as Ter Amell speaks to him, lifting his chin shyly as Amell says something humorous.

Jared’s mildly irritated. This is hindering the procession. As if Jensen can feel the eyes of his Mets Ter,  he disengages with Ter Amell and smiles apologetically in his direction. Jared’s feeling more settled, halfway towards blissful oblivion when Mets Tikin Genevieve slips into his field of vision.

He turns a frightened look in his best friend’s direction, but Chad is laughing, directly at him, visibly wiping tears away from his eyes. Jared flashes him a rude gesture for his relatively unhelpful attitude. Gen’s face crinkles into a smile when she spots him, and she makes a smooth detour in his direction. Jared’s immediately worried. He hasn’t engaged in siravep very often, his vicious climb to the top often hampering the very real need for a companion.

Jared can’t breathe, abruptly, and he’s fairly certain that his manyak is endeavoring to strangle him to death. He sees Jensen stand on tip-toe, out of the corner of his eyes, and slip two fingers in between the ornate chokehold and his neck. “Breathe,” Jensen whispers, smoothing hesitant fingers over Jared’s patmut’yun before he settles back onto the soles of his feet.

Gen’s all light and dark hair, hagts’nel the colors of her house, dark violet and grey, embroidered with white lace. Her manyak is covered by the elaborate stitching of her house crest, the agrrav, and her hair is done up in a soft hairstyle piled at the top of her head. Jared knows there’s some fancy name for her look, but far be it from him to know it.

He hears a snort to his right and he glances down at Jensen, who has one hand slapped protectively over his mouth. Jared smirks involuntarily. “You think this is so funny? Then you tell me what I should say to her when she approaches.” Jared’s face is lined with mirth and he’s got to try avidly to control himself when Jensen shoots a dagger-like glare up at him.

“I haven’t the slightest idea about azniv fashions, probably less of an idea than you have!” He hisses, lips in a thin line. “My Mets Ter,” he adds, a reluctant afterthought. Jared clasps hands with old Ter Jordan and leans towards Jensen. “Better hurry, she’s almost here.” Jared watches as Jensen tilts his head toward Danni, eyes wide in no small amount of agitation.

Jensen tugs on his sleeve and grits out, “Tell her that her hagts’nel compliments her hair, and she looks like an Ark’ayadustr of old.” Jared’s mildly pleased that Jensen was able to think on his feet so quickly, and he’s temporarily dazed at Gen’s sudden debut in front of him.

“My Mets Ter,” she offers, respectfully, pretty features sparkling in the warm light of Kane’s Mets Sahr. Jared reaches down for her small hands and envelopes them. “Mets Tikin,” he bows, grandly, before her. She smiles, a soft, pleasant thing, and Jared is surprised at the sense of warmth blooming in his chest.

“Your hagts’nel is remarkably striking, reminds me of your hair.” Gen’s face flushes charmingly and Jared dares not glance to his right, where he can physically feel Jensen trembling with the effort of suppressing his laughter.

Jared presses forth with all of the appealing warmth he can put in his voice. He curves a hand under her chin, briefly. “Like an Ark’ayadustr.” Jared hears a full-bodied snort next to him, but, blessedly, Gen remains unaware, her lip caught in her teeth. “Jared, stop playing me with pretty words.” She bats at his hand merrily, and Jared laughs.

“Should you like to be my escort for the evening?” Gen dips her head. Jared offers her his arm and she accepts, curving herself gently into his side. “I apologize in advance for Chad. He’s my best friend, but he’s not always the most --reputable company, I’m afraid.” Gen raises a brow mockingly. “You forget we all grew up together, Jared. I may have grown up in Antarr, and you Lerrnayin, but I’m no stranger to Chad.” Her lips quirk up mischievously.

“Chad’s gotten me into my fair share of trouble.” Jared’s eyes expand in glee. Jared hollers for Chad, for once heedless of Retta and his mayr’s teachings on public decorum. “Look who I’ve brought!” Chad sits up and quickly deposits his tsarra onto the floor beside him. “Genny Weeny,” Chad offers, arms outstretched. Gen pops him smartly on the head, and Jared guffaws loudly.

Chad rubs his forehead in some grievance. “Weren’t so violent when were kids, Gen.”

Jared pulls a chair out for Gen and settles in beside her, hands on his thighs. “I didn’t meet Gen til I was six and ten, Chad, when the hell did you meet her?” Jared hopes he doesn’t sound too petulant, but he doesn’t like feeling excluded, and he and Chad have been together since birth, or damn near.

Gen swats at him impatiently and Jared chuckles and leans forward to hear Chad better. “Do you remember the summer your father had you spend in Hosank,’ to study for the primaries? We were three and ten.” Jared shudders, remembering the long months he had been forced to study for endless hours for the exams he needed to pass in order to be accepted into the Ts’uts’ak.

Jared nods, running a hand over his face. “Don’t talk about it. You did yours the next summer.” Chad groans. “Anyway, Genny--” Gen raises a small hand in threat and Chad backpedals. “Fucking Genevieve, that better, ark’ayadustr, came to Lerrnayin because her brother was beginning the siravep for Mets Tikin Anna of Tun Hammond.”

Jared’s sure Chad told him all about this summer, and is confused as to why he’s drawing a blank on Gen’s presence. Gen pipes up then, “Mayr wanted to come but she’d just released my sister Sarah, and thought she should stay in Antarr.” Gen shrugs then, in Chad’s direction.

“Gen and I may or may not have had some fun at the expense of Johnny and Anna.” Chad swirls his voginery around idly. “The gatherings were so boring, and they were all ceremony, Jare, I could’ve done the haghordavar’s job for him, there at the end.” Jared’s surprised, but also mildly pleased, because usually people have to be coaxed into accepting Chad, and Gen’s already done the work him.

Jared turns away from the animated pair and spies Danni engaged in vibrant conversation with Mets Ter Hodge, who looks a little afraid of moving, lest he interrupt her. Jared catches his eye and shrugs in sympathy. Jared can’t see Jensen anywhere.

He rises out of his seat a fraction, unused to not being able to find a person in a crowd, due to his extraordinary height. He catches sight of the dark blonde head then, with a taller brown haired man. Jensen’s laughing, and it’s got a bright color staining his features.

Jared settles back down with a thump. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jensen laugh before. A full-bodied chuckle. Ter Amell must be telling Jensen an amusing story, he reasons. Jared drags his attention back to the table, then, almost missing Gen rise. “I’ll be back, boys, I’ve got to say hello to some of my friends.” She smiles kindly and then saunters away.

Chad laces his fingers together. “Gen was a wild one. Kind of a loaded weapon, if you’d believe it now.” Jared faces him, gaiety vanished from his countenance. “On the way here, my ‘mek was attacked.” Chad sits forward so quickly his voginery spills. His tsarra leap forward but Chad waves them off with a firm command to busy themselves elsewhere.

“Have you any leads on who it might be?”

“No idea,” Jared replies. “I haven’t really had the chance, with this damn voghjuyn, I’ve just had to land on my feet.”

Chad’s alert, the playboy haze he usually affects slipping momentarily. “I’m staying in Avaz, after this, then.” Jared opens his mouth to protest, Chad loves Lerrnayin, but Chad’s already shaking his head. “Jared you’ve got a temper like no other. You remember.” He pauses, calculating the weight of his words.

“Jared, you remember what happened. I’ve always stood between you--and that.” Jared’s mouth tightens and he gives Chad a curt nod. “Then we’ve got work to do.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> mahvan (mah-vahn) death ceremony for tsarra  
> astvatsuhi (ahst-vahts-oo-he) goddess  
> P’aylel (pie-lehl) River in Avaz

Danni’s the most subdued Jensen’s seen her, ever since the mahvan for her father, a few months ago. For that very reason, Jensen’s disquieted, asks her four times what’s wrong before she turns annoyed brown eyes in his direction.

“I’m fine, Jensen, in fact, I’d probably be doing better if you weren’t asking me the same question every two minutes!” She’s not really angry, just mildly irritated, and Jensen shrugs in self-reproach. “I’m not the one sitting in silence, looking out of the window like I’ve never seen Avaz before,” Jensen says.

“And honestly, I’m usually the one being quiet, and I don’t know what to say if you aren’t talking.” Jensen’s mildly pissed, right arm curved over the last of the bruises on his ribcage. Danni’s laughing, tears streaming down her cheeks, hunched over in the low-backed chair in her apartments.

Jensen’s more than a bit miffed. Danni knows it wasn’t easy for him to admit that. She’s sitting upright now, her flushed face about halfway to an apology when there is a sudden interruption.

Eddie runs inside of their apartments, the sleeves of his jacket a muted green. “Scuze me,” he breathes, bending over momentarily to catch his breath. They’re staying a pretty decent way away from the hub of the aparank’ and Eddie deserves to be a bit winded. Jensen lays a hand on his elbow. “Are you okay?” He says. “Is there some trouble with Mets Ter Kane?”

Eddie shakes his head, no, and holds up one finger. “You--” he points to Jensen’s chest and Jensen whirls around to look at Danni, who’s formerly flushed face has gone bone white. “Me, what?” Jensen asks, abruptly concerned. “You have a visitor, in the Mets Sahr.” Eddie pulls himself upright, looking more dignified, and Jensen sniffs.

“Are you positive? Because I don’t know anyone in Avaz, and I don’t know anyone who would travel this far to see me.” Jensen’s mind turns quickly to Mack, but he dismisses that almost as quickly as it entered. He’d sent her his first ever holo-gram yesterday, omitting any mention about the unfortunate incident on the voyage there.

Eddie looks a little affronted. He’s household tsarra, and therefore holds himself in relatively high esteem. “I’m absolutely sure that Ter Amell is waiting to speak with you in the Mets Sahr. I’ve known the azniv since he was freshly released, I’m rather certain I’m correct.” Jensen bites down on his lower lip, mouth gaping in an almost atonement.

Danni gives him a brutal shove in the direction of the exit, astvatsuhi of Gentility, that one, and he flashes a kind smile in Eddie’s direction as he races off. Jensen’s running quickly and he skids to a halt, glancing around at his surroundings. He’s not quite sure how to navigate Tun Kane, yet. He’s in a corridor that’s covered in a splash of cream, the only forest green being the ceiling and the draperies around the golden chandelier that’s perched precariously overhead.

Jensen’s trying to figure out whether or not it’s worth retracing his steps or if he can wander along until he runs across tsarra that will point him the right direction. He hears a small laugh from his left, and he pauses in his pacing to glance in that direction. It’s the last person he expects, because Ter Amell is smiling at him, manyak held in bashful hands.

Jensen walks closer, briskly, and genuflects smoothly. “Why’re you not wearing your manyak?” Jensen reels backwards, apparently having shocked only himself. Jensen’s asking to be terminated. At the very least, asking for disciplinary action. Jensen holds up a hand, begging Ter Amell to allow him to chance to rescind the comment, but Ter Amell is laughing so bodily there are tears pooling in his bright cerulean eyes.

“No need, Jensen. You remove the manyak in honor of the Tun. It’s only worn indoors for a gathering.” Jensen flushes against his will. These are the questions he asks Danni, he reminds himself brutally. Ter Amell is looking at him warmly, and Jensen squirms underneath the gaze. The Ter reaches for his arm, sliding his head to the side in question.

Jensen receives it, and accompanies Ter Amell back to the Mets Sahr, which, as it turns out, he was remarkably close to. Ter sits across from him, eyes fixated on the intricate woven carpet, which seems to be another Vormnankar, one that is stitched, this time. The River P’aylel stretches across it, and Jensen reaches out, it’s so lifelike he’d just like to touch it.

Ter Amell is smiling handsomely, again, and Jensen retracts his hand. “I don’t know if you’ve got any thoughts on me, Jensen, one way or the other, but I would really like you to consider contracting yourself to me.” Jensen raises his brows to his hairline, and sits back further on the armchair. “I’m contracted by Tun Padalecki--”

Ter Amell nods hurriedly, bracing his hands on his knees as he rises, leaving his elaborate manyak lying beside him. He’s pacing, hands laced behind his back. “I’m aware, and Mets Ter Jared is a sight more powerful than I. But, I’ve got aparanks’ enough to house you, and whomever else you’d need me to contract.”

Amell faces him, eyes bright. “Jensen. I’m aware that I’m asking for a lot. And you’ve just met me. And I would probably need to speak directly to your Mets Ter, but it would go a great deal in helping me if you were to be agreeable to the idea.” Jensen wraps thin arms around himself. It isn’t unheard of, for a Ter or Mets Ter to become infatuated with tsarra, bavakanin, specifically, and attempt to contract them, regardless of other standing contracts.

Didn’t Mets Ter Padalecki do just that?

Jensen spreads his hands before him, palms raised. “I’ve just been contracted from Tun Morgan to Tun Padalecki.” Jensen falters, eyes lowered respectfully. “I mean no offense, when I say this, Ter Amell, but my Mets Ter is second in the Ts’uts’ak, and he’s slated to be Arrajin.”

He glances up, to see that Ter Amell’s body is slumped back onto the couch, manyak hanging uselessly from his fingers. “Is that to say, you’re refusing?” Jensen sighs, angry. He’s irritated that he’s in this position. He’s only just secured a future for Mack, and he’s not keen on changing that just yet.

“I have a second primary, Ter. My younger sister, Mackenzie. She’s just been contracted with Tun Padalecki as well, and my best friend is here. I daresay you cannot afford to contract all of us, especially at the obscene amounts Mets Ter Jared probably paid.”

Ter Amell smiles sheepishly. “I knew it was a foolish thought, but, you’re the sweetest bit of air I’ve had since my Tikin selected--early termination.”

Jensen claps a hand over his mouth. He’s aware of the scandal that must have caused. Jensen knows his peers must look upon him with more than a little pity and confusion. Jensen lays a hand on the Ter’s shoulder, unthinkingly, and smiles down on him. “I have no idea what’s caused you to think so highly of me, but I will help you in any way I can.”

Ter Amell’s hand reaches up, and he cups Jensen’s face. Jensen’s cheeks pinken, he’s unaccustomed to seeing that look in anyone’s eyes. Amell hears the approaching footsteps of the aparank’ owner, Mets Ter Kane himself.

Jensen slides away, resuming his seat, and Mets Ters Chad, Kane and Jared waltz in, chuckling very quietly amongst themselves. All eyes take in the situation fleetingly, these are powerful men, reaction times rapid. Mets Ter Kane regains his voice first. “Ter Stephen, I didn’t know you were visiting today!” Amell rises, makes the sign of the blessing at the assemblage before him.

“Sadly, I’m just leaving. I only stopped by to have a word with Jensen.” He gestures with his free hand to where Jensen is respectfully seated. Jensen looks up swiftly, catches the confused glance that Jared sends his way, and lowers his head once more. 


	15. Chapter 15

Jared’s pleased that he doesn’t have to tell Jensen to follow him when Amell is escorted from the aparank’ by Kane’s household tsarra.

Jared’s having a hard time looking at the bavakanin, the nape of his neck flushed a little in embarrassed color, leaf-green eyes darting around at the Vormnankar painted on Kane’s extensive wall. He reaches out a slim hand to admire the artwork and suddenly seems to remember where he is and who he is with. Jared’s got his own set of apartments here, gifted to him by Kane when they were still as yet impressionable children.

Jared sweeps through the rooms, high gothic arches and minimal lighting, he’s always loved his privacy. There’s a red-wood armoire in the corner of his temporary office, inlaid with intricate carvings along the base. Jared’s always loved that piece, it’s a history of childhoods spent with Kane, and other azniv children, and he’d taken personal pains to have it delivered and installed here.

He motions for Jensen to sit down in the beige armchair resting delicately on metal stilts. Jensen sinks gratefully and lowers his head in respect.

“Jensen, what did Ter Amell come to speak with you about?”

Jared’s never wasted words without a particular goal in mind. He tends to practice more subterfuge with women, plies them with twisted compliments and underhanded grabs at information. He maintains a no-bullshit policy around men, though. They needn’t play guessing games with one another.

Jensen continually surprises him, because he glances up, sharply.

“I think that’s between Ter Amell, and myself.” He pauses, brow furrowed. “I did not invite him here, however. I’d never invite any yntrel to another’s aparank.’

Jared waves a hand dismissively. He knows that Jensen is honest, the boy would probably never talk to another living soul other than Danni if he could help it.

“If it concerns me, it is my business, Jensen.” Jared rests his forehead on his palm briefly. “Look. I’m not trying to be an apush, right now, and I know I’m coming off as one.” Jensen raises an eyebrow sardonically, and then looks down at the wood floor, face scarlet.

Jared snorts, against his will. “Jen, look at me.” Jensen meets his gaze. “I just want to know--I ah, I’m just concerned about what he’s asking you for.” Jared feels like a dolt. He could just make the tsarra tell him, it’d be nothing like anything he hasn’t done before. Jensen just has this awful way of saying things with his eyes that Jared would rather not witness.

“He asked if I would think of extending my contract, to him.” Jared’s hands tighten on the corner of his desk imperceptibly.

“I see.” Jared’s temper is working itself up, and that has never, not in all his life, led to a good thing. He needs a drink. Or several. He cannot, for the life of him, verbalize why he’s so damned furious.

He thinks it probably has something to do with the concerned green eyes angled in his direction. “Are you alright, my Mets Ter? Do you want me to call anyone?” Jensen is halfway risen from his seat, black slacks tightening gently over tensed thighs.

Jared manages to remove one hand from the death grip he has around his desk and place it convincingly in his lap. “I’m fine, Jen.” He’s gritting his words, but that can’t be helped. He’s not been this out of control in years, and he’s become unaccustomed to the feeling. “He can’t have you.”

Well, fuck.

The words are out now. And one thing Jared never does is renege on his word.

Jensen’s mouth twists upwards. “Is that was this is, Mets Ter?” Jensen leans forward, balancing on the edge of his seat. “Are you angered because another Ter wants to take what you paid so much to contract?” Jared narrows his eyes.

“It’s not that, Jen, and I’ll thank you kindly to watch what accusations you sling my way.” Jensen sits back, properly chastised, but the fire in his eyes is less than banked. “I just--” Jared deflates a bit, righteous indignation settling in his bones. “Jen, I’ve just contracted you. And besides the unfortunate incident in my ‘mek, I thought we might be getting along.”

Jensen sits up, hands clasped over knees. “I’m not going with him. You didn’t even give me the chance to say that.” He looks mildly wounded, as if Jared’s just insulted him.

Which, he has, he realizes belatedly. “Jen, I’m sorry--” he presses his lips shut. There isn’t any reason to apologize to the bavakanin, but he’s inclined to do so regardless. “Jen, I was just nervous.” Jensen raises a brow. “I like Ter Amell, and I would like to remain on good terms with him. He’s lost his Tikin.” Jensen replies resolutely.

Jared presses fingertips to temples. He vaguely remembers extending condolences and sending flowers when Amell’s Tikin had an untimely termination. “That’s fine, Jensen. I’ve been rude, here. If it helps the man to be able to speak with you, I’ll hold nothing against him.”

Jared drags a hand through his hair, effectively destroying the style his tsarra formed this morning.

A small smile is playing at Jensen’s lips and Jared leans forward, chest pressing against his desk. “What’s that you’re grinning about?” Jared smiles a little himself. “Think you’ve gotten the best of me?”

Jensen’s eyes widen a fraction. “I did nothing of the sort!”

Jared settles back in the leather chair, arms crossed over his expansive chest. “I think you did. Pretty little thing, wrapped up in innocence, but you’ve got claws, don’t you?”

Jensen bites at his lips, lashes brushing against flushed cheeks. “I get...testy when I don’t like things,” he mutters, eyes roaming. Jared reaches out a hand and tips Jensen’s chin up. “Join the party.” His face becomes serious suddenly. “I’ll not have him attempting to contract you behind my back, Jensen. I’m firm on that point.”

Jared can feel his temper flare into awareness again, all sound and fury. “That’s something I cannot abide by. Not with you.” Jared’s said too much again, but this time Jensen looks just as befuddled as Jared feels. “Alright, my Mets Ter.”

Jensen crosses a leg underneath his body, then, posture shifting. “Have you any news on the unfortunate incident aboard your ‘mek?” Jared doesn’t like to speak of private matters outside of his offices, too many ears, but he does think he owes Jensen an explanation.

“I can’t speak much of it, but rest assured that there’s an ongoing investigation.” Jared’s eyes move unwillingly to Jensen’s waist. The tsarra is no longer holding it in a painful manner, but Jared’s eyes see crimson when he thinks of harm coming to the boy.

“Do you still have trouble, with your ribs?” Jensen looks down, momentarily nonplussed, and then he replies. “Oh no, I’m fine. Tun Kane’s doctor did a good job. Barely feel a thing.” Jensen cocks his head to the side inquisitively. “I hope you haven’t been worrying about that. I’m doing well,” he says. “In fact, I’d be more angry to find out who did it in the first place.”

There it is, that little glimpse of fire that amuses Jared so much. “Alright, gravich’ you conduct your own search for the culprit, and I mine, and we’ll compare notes.” Jensen smirks skeptically. “Are you going to take my knowledge into account, my Mets Ter?” Jared smiles, wicked thing, and Jensen recoils slightly.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, Jen, what Danni’s told you, or other tsarra, for that matter.” He steeples his fingers underneath his chin, introspective. “But I am a monster.”

Jensen stiffens, eyes locked on Jared’s face. “It’s a general consensus. I’ve got one goal, and that’s to dominate. All things you’re aware of, I’m sure.” Jared stands then, sensing that this meeting is drawing to a close. He walks from around his desk, and stands directly behind Jensen’s chair, bearing down on it, forcing a small shriek from the stilts.

“There are always people, some I even considered my friends, that want nothing more than to see me fail.” Jared’s rocking on his feet now, hands behind his back, all black attire clinging to well-defined muscles.

Jensen is unmoving, hands perched on armrests, braced for Jared’s command. Jared smiles, angling his head down, mouth level with Jensen’s ear.

“They yearn for what they fear for.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> siruhi (see-roo-e) A mistress  
> suzum (soo-zoom) sport involved diving at rapid speeds  
> Margarit (Mar-gah-reet) Sea bordering Avaz  
> Siramarg (see-rah-marguh) exotic bird  
> Mets Yerek’ (Mest Yair-wreck) Great Three (referring to the most important ceremonies, release, termination and joining)

Danni’s hands are on her hips, and Jensen thinks she looks remarkably like siruhi, and he tells her so, in no uncertain terms. She flings a brocaded pillow in his direction, and he ducks seamlessly, peals of laughter echoing through their apartments. Mets Ter Jared is out of the aparank’ today and he has taken less than his standard amount of parade tsarra with him.

He is accompanied by Mets Ter Kane, and they are to be playing Suzum all day, at the Margarit, and Jensen notices that Jared looks enthused for the first time since they have landed. Pale cheeks and onyx under his eyes have lessened a bit, and he seems thrilled to be doing something fun.

He’d smiled at Jen and Danni, told them to go exploring, so they’d have good stories to exchange when he returned. Jensen’s always wanted to play Suzum, but Danni’s deathly afraid of water and he won’t leave her alone. He’s sure there will be other opportunities.

However, she’s angling for a trip into the city, and Jensen, relaxed fully on the elegant mattress made of Siramarg feathers, is in no mood to be jostled about thousands of yntrel and azniv. Danni huffs impatiently, then turns wet eyes in his direction.

“I always go wherever you need me to, Jensen. The least you could do--” Jensen lumbers up, back cracking noisily as he does so. “I’m going because you’re right, and not because you looked at me with those big piglet tears.”

Danni guffaws loudly, juxtaposition of tears and mirth mildly frightening on her face. “Get dressed, then!” She says, wiping theatrical tears off of flushed cheeks. “Wear something silver. I’m wearing silver and I want to match.” Jensen rakes a hand through his hair good naturedly. As if he’d really had any other choice.

She runs back into the room, waving two gowns in his face. One is a short, silver number, dull metallic sheen and capped sleeves. The other looks much the same, in Jensen’s opinion, only it is floor-length. Jensen nods to the shorter one pragmatically. “It’s hot out, Danni, you’ll be cursing me and everyone around you if you leave the aparank’ in that.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, kitten-like, but nevertheless follows his advice, body tucked generously into the tiny piece, hips sharply curved, and Jensen whistles low, deep in his throat. “Do you like it?” Her voice is tentative, and Jensen thinks Danni might truly be self-conscious. “It looks great. I’d snatch you up in a heartbeat.”

She snorts, indelicate as always, and eyes his attire appraisingly. “What is on your body, Jen.” Jensen looks down blankly. He’s got on a shirt of the same fabric and texture as Danni’s dress, and a pair of red slacks. “What?” He’s perturbed. “You said, silver, so I’ve got on silver.”

He raises his brow. “Is there like, some special silver that I don’t know about? Like, a little silver mixed with gold or something?” Danni pops up lithely and smacks him on the back of his head, dancing out of his reach and ducking bodily into his open closet.

“Here,” she grumbles, thrusting a shirt at him without turning around or removing herself from his belongings. He takes the proffered garment carefully, mouth quirked in amusement as she wiggles deeper inside. “And you’re wearing black pants, you nightmare. We only have to wear all red at the Mets Yerek,’ and thank the gods for that.” She sniffs in his general direction. “For your sake.”

Jensen snorts in disbelief and snatches the pants out of her hand. “Thank Gods you allow me out with you on my arm. You’d think I was a damn hunchback.”

Jensen’s dressed to perfection (Danni’s acceptance, same difference) when they leave, appropriating Mets Ter Jared’s parade tsarra ‘mek, a sight more ostentatious than the more subtle one used by household tsarra. Danni’s giggling, it’s always difficult to travel with Mets Ter Jared’s crest of a p’yunik emblazoned in beautiful detail across the entire vehicle.

Jensen buries his head in his hands. This is going to be an extremely long trip.

They’re accosted as soon as they descend onto the landing deck located just before the Center, where the hub of the entire city is located. The owner of the deck himself comes out, a jolly looking yntrel man meets them, eyes wide as he attempts to surreptitiously admire their wealth.

“Please, if you, or Mets Ter Padalecki has any need of anything, please, do not hesitate to contact me. I will make sure you have the most advantageous spot in the deck for the duration of your stay in Avaz.” Danni’s grinning, borderline mad woman, but Jensen’s fairly irritated, and says as much.

He’s appropriately deferential, this is yntrel to whom he’s referring, but his words are clipped, at best. “Thank you for your hospitality.” Jensen drags Danni away, bodily and pushes her into the sunlight, smirk lighting up his face. “Alright ark’ayadustr, where to?”

Danni’s spinning, craning her neck to look up at all of the towers in their vicinity. Avaz is the combination of modernity and history, and it’s spectacular. Jensen’s always enjoyed cities, but not so much the constant conglomeration of people within them. The towers are all off-white, edging towards cream, capped by circular domes, interior constructed with repeating semicircular arches.

The domes are capped in red, claret flags adorned with the emblem of the city, decorative banners floating in the breeze. Jensen gapes at the interior art, walls carved with interlacing foliage and tendrils, and no matter how often Jensen cocks his head to the side, it continues seamlessly.

There is cloth of gold-aplenty, and Jensen can see the landing decks dotted across the landscape, azniv and yntrel ‘meks hurdling by in the sun. Danni is dazed. “Jensen, promise me you’ll come sightseeing, every city we go to.”

Jensen doesn’t even have to lie to her, this is astounding. He’s not once been out in Lerrnayin, always travels with Mets Ter Jared in his golden ‘mek, doesn’t dare peek out of the windows. He knows that Lerrnayin looks nothing like this, though. This place is warm and exotic, slightly stifling heat from the large body of water located nearby.

Danni drags him bodily into the market area, clear domed glass covering the otherwise open air center. Danni’s leering at the intricate dress patterns in the window, can see the the azniv and yntrel women chattering excitedly to the tsarra that are helping them. There are soft blues and yellows, and Jensen can tell Danni is dreaming excitedly.

Jensen sends up silent thanks to the Gods that he isn’t female. He presses his body as tightly as he can against the storefront, eyes scanning the vicinity for anything that might interest him. He’s looking lazily, forgets to keep his eyes downward, when he catches someone’s eye. He forgets, briefly, to avert his gaze, because the face looks relatively familiar.

Danni, he hisses, out of the side of his mouth, poking her in the side and ignoring her attempts to swat his hands away. “Jensen Ross, they’re literally stitching the crest in for her, I can’t tell what Tun it belongs to, at this--” she grunts, rising on toes “angle, but if you’d shut up for a minute--”

Jensen grabs at her arm, because tall and recognizable is slowly heading in their direction. “Who is that?” He points, jerking her body to face the stranger. Yntrel, if his manyak is any indication, and Danni sighs, long-suffering sound.

“Jen, can we please go out, anywhere, without you attracting some man’s attention?” Jensen flushes in aggravation. “Danni, I hide in the damn shadows every chance I get. Now who is that?”

Danni’s eyes widen a fraction and she purses her lips stonily. “That’s Ter Robert Amell.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be doing this with every city I mention, but this is the artist approximation of the city of Avaz.
> 
> All credit due to Graffiti Freak, I can't draw a straight line.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> tup’ (toop) waterproof backpack that causes drastic increases in wpm when diving  
> shnagayl (shuh-nah-gai-eel) Crest of Tun Kane, jackal  
> hska (hus-kah) giant  
> Dzyun (zuh-hoon) District

Chad is, very shortly, going to have Jared drowned in the Margarit today, and his only regret is that he will be too dead to murder Chad in retaliation.

Jared and Chad are equally matched at Suzum, but Kane’s bested them time and time again, lean body cutting into the water from the elevated dock, tup’ pressed tightly to his back. The crest of Tun Kane is scripted in flowing silver, shnagayl predatory-looking. Jared narrows his eyes at his friend and monitors his form, striving to see what’s so different about it.

Kane swings a look over at Jared, cocksure grin in place. “You didn’t grow up here,” he drawls, cracking his neck in preparation. Chad scoffs next to him, squinty eyes almost disappearing due to the sunlight glinting off of the blue-green water. “Jay-man and I spent plenty of time here as kids. We’re not too bad.” Kane grins ferally.

“Must be luck that I continue beating you, then?” Kane launches himself off of the platform, arms held stiffly by his sides. Jared leans over to watch the pulse of warps emit from his tup,’ propelling him to the water’s surface at blinding speed.

“124.3 wpm” the automated voice calls out on the scoreboard. Jared scowls in annoyance and Chad sniffs in disdain. “We can beat that.” Chad offers hopefully, glancing over at where his parade tsarra are resting, chatting amongst themselves. Jared bends his head against the sudden breeze wafting over him. He can see Kane swimming languidly over to the platform that will elevate him back to their party.

“He keeps his hands by his sides and his head angled down. It’s effortless, for him. We don’t do that.” Chad stretches out a hamstring, skeptically. “What are you suggesting?” Jared takes his position at the edge of the dock and tightens his tup’ about his ribcage.

“Watch. And when it’s your turn, copy what I’ve done, unless this is a complete failure.” Jared’s knees pop a bit as he leans over the edge, calves tight. The ding sounds off, indicating that Jared may dive, and he presses his limbs tightly together as he hurdles himself into the air. Jared’s freefalling, spectacular form, he can feel it. He’s a little more than a third of the way down, long brown hair jerked brutally from his face by the wind, when he mashes the button on his tup’ and he feels the warps emit.

He flutters his lower legs violently, as if he is already in the water and swimming. He thinks he hears a faint whoop, but he’s so far past sound he’s sure he’s mistaken, and he angles his hands out in front of him as he breaches the water. He resists the urge to grin like an idiot as his eyes adjust to the clear liquid surrounding him, illuminated with the light of the sun.

He paddles his way upwards, head breaking the waves his descent had created. He lets out a long whistle, for Chad’s benefit, and begins to swim towards the elevator-deck. He sits lethargically, breathing choppy, tan legs dangling off the edge. The white deck begins its ascent automatically, having been activated via motion sensor. Jared pads off of it immediately, snorting when he sees Kane’s disgruntled face and Chad’s deliciously smug one.

“126.7 wpm,” the scoreboard offers, and Chad bumps fists with him. “Fucking brilliant, man. I’ve seen people kick off at the end there, but you did it so close to the landing it almost could’ve been a waste.” Jared smirks in Kane’s direction. “What’d you think, Chris?” The shorter man sniffs, running a hand through dark locks.

“Beginner’s luck.” His face is sullen, but the promise of another challenge sparkles in small blue eyes. Jared slaps him on the shoulder, winners rush vibrating through his veins. Chad’s aligned himself for the next dive, wiry body stretching out effortlessly. Jared turns from his best friend for a second when he hears female laughter in the vicinity.

Kane groans aloud, low enough for Jared to hear. “They never come to Suzum. Ever. Messes up their hair or some other such shit.” Kane pulls muscular arms behind his head and shutters his eyes shut. “Who all is there? I can’t look. Use your freakish height, hska.” Jared cuffs his friend smartly and then shades his eyes to see who is approaching.

There are about three Mets Tikins, spearheaded by Gen and followed closely by Mets Tikins Nina and Sophia. Jared doesn’t mind them, all in all, Nina’s full of mischief, and routinely terrorized azniv Tuns with him when they were children. He doesn’t know Sophia all that well, but he’s aware that she and Chad have some history, one that he is hard-pressed to get him to speak about.

“Gen, Soph and Nina, you great kapkel. Stand up and look alive. Maybe one will take pity on you and wet your dick.” Chris splutters next to him, undignified mess, and Jared inclines his head respectfully when Gen approaches him, tiny bright smile overpowering her features. “Chad told me that you all might engage in Suzum today, so I thought we would try and catch you.”

Jared’s reminded of how much he likes Gen, in that moment. She’s guileless, spares no pains in providing Jared with a logical explanation for her actions. “That’d be fun. I’ll warn you though,” he says shortly, suddenly serious. “I like to win. If you’re on my team we must win at all costs.” Gen pulls her hair up in a ponytail and smirks up at him.

“I’ll gladly shove one of my friends into the Margarit for the sake of the score, if that’s what you’re asking.” Jared guffaws aloud, and the rest of the gathering turns to look at him with varying expressions of mirth. “Let’s divide into teams. Ladies, pick a man.” He leers suggestively and chuckles outright when Nina juts her trim body in his direction.

If he could have two on a team, Gen and Nina would be his picks, with Nina’s infectious laugh and dog-with-a-bone mentality. She sidles up to Kane though, and Kane looks down at her with a moderately pleased expression. Chad is standing rather stiffly next to Sophia, whose pretty little nose is a bit scrunched up. Chad hasn’t uttered a single word in all this time.

“Gen,” Jared leans down to whisper. Gen rises up on tiptoes, striving to meet Jared halfway. “Yes?”

“What’s the deal between Chad and Soph? Not that they look like they’d rather be poisoned and left for dead, or anything.” Gen snorts, inelegantly, and crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to get into it all right now, mostly because I don’t have nearly enough time for it, but Chad was some shade of bastard, and I love the kid, and Soph has never forgiven him for it.”

Jared hums in his throat, curiosity piqued. “When did this happen?” Gen’s eyes roll up toward the sky, small brow wrinkling as she thinks. “Ah, must’ve been when you were away at Hamalsaran in Dzyun, or Antarr, I don’t remember which.” Jared went away before Chad, and chose to complete his studies in Lerrnayin last, while Chad opted to get those out of the way first. It was only the second time they’d ever been separated for so long.

“Shit, he must’ve fucked everything up.” Gen looks at him sideways. “That is his way.” Jared takes Gen’s arm, after waiting an appropriate interval for her to accept, and lines up behind the other two pairs.

Jared, who is impromptu leader, calls out for attention. “Your wpm’s will be tallied together for each dive you do. Lowest of the Suzum regulation of ten dives per person, in this case, twenty dives per team, will have to buy and host dinner tonight. At aparank’ or in the city, I care not which.”

Jared’s delighted with the idea, especially since he loathes being kharishk of any affair, let alone something as small as dinner.

Jared never loses. He’s not at all worried. And from the labor-intensive stretches Gen is conducting beside him, he believes she is unaccustomed to that as well.

He momentarily thinks of Jensen, probably being forced to so God knows what with Danni. He finds himself moderately excited to hear Jensen’s dry rendition of whatever adventure has been foisted upon him today. His thoughts turn mildly grim as he realizes that this is one of the few breaks he’s had to think of something other than the Ferma holdings and the attack on his ‘mek.

He’ll have to meet with the other Ters in the city tomorrow, and he’s not looking forward to it. His body stiffens involuntarily and Gen nudges him with one smooth hip. “Stop thinking about it. Get your head out of the clouds because I won’t lose to these poor excuses for partners.” Jared huffs out a laugh from behind his fist.

He thinks he and Gen get along just fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thoughts?


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to know:  
> artak’in (r-taak-een) formal azniv suit  
> sard (sarhd) Crest of Tun Amell, spider  
> k’ayly (ky-lair) surrogate sibling  
> T’agavor (Tah-gah-vohr) King  
> Voski Tari (Vos-key- Tah-ree) Gold Age  
> Bal (bahl) Avazian fruit  
> Dzmerr (Zuh-mair) Winter
> 
> I'm so sorry about the delay, I don't like rushing through the chapters of this fic, due to the intensive world-building, and I've been crazy busy with work lately. 
> 
> I'll be posting this on a much more regular schedule now, however!

Kane hasn’t been to Hosank’ in several years, and he’s never been overly fond of the district, considers it too claustrophobic to the wide open air of Avaz that he has grown up with. He doesn’t hate it, but there is little that Chris actually loathes.

Chad is attending as well, figures that Jared needs all the help he can get, and he needs to visit with all of the other Tikins in the Empire, whom he feels that he has been shamefully neglecting, in his words. Jared will need to ask him about Sophia, but he hasn’t the time to devote to Chad’s obligatory avoidance of the topic, not when his father sent him a halo-gram in order to check in on the progress that he’s made thus far.

The Holdings in Avaz are located near the Margarit, apparently the air and atmosphere are conducive to the crops and the exchanges. Jared has never been there before, and the place is utter decadence, domed glass building rising from the edge of the sea, emblem flags floating lazily in the air. The Ferma Flag is erected just below that of the city, and Jared had glanced at it on his way inside.

The khnamakal of the Holdings is a weaselly Mets Ter named Richard, significantly small in stature. Jared has grown up around the man, he and his father had been rather close business-mates, but Jared has not lived with his family in a few years now, does not know how the Ter has been faring. Jared, Kane and Chad provide him with the sign of the blessing, and he escorts them to his outer offices, well versed on the discrepancy.

He was unable to make it to the gathering at Collins’ aparank’ but he settles behind his wooden desk and steeples his fingers under his chin, nods toward Jared to speak, deferring to his Ts’uts’ak ranking. “I cannot make any conclusive decisions based on this visit alone,” Jared begins, knowing that Ters tend to want things resolved then and there, product of their illustrious upbringing. Chad chuckles beside him, is always amused at how he seems to drive straight to the point of the matter. Kane remains immobile, clear-eyes gaze at the man before them.

“I’m the first district you’ve visited on your journey, my Mets Ter, I don’t assume that you would know the endgame yet.” His smile is benevolent, speaks of a man that has seen Jared as a child, helped bathe him and read him stories. Jared feels that the product of his life is inescapable, he will always be remembered as a child, which will hinge on his successes, until his termination.

Jared smiles tightly, settles in the chair proffered to him. “I’ll be starting with your balance sheets. The better to work my way up.” Richard procures a few from inside his desk immediately, and Jared has always enjoyed when people anticipate his needs.

He scans the assets, column first, humming as he reads the top entry, knowing that this product has the highest market liquidity. His father has risen the price steadily, over the years, and the demand has always allowed for it to be sold rather quickly, with little price fluctuation. Jared moves over as Kane and Chad endeavor to read over his shoulders.

At the bottom of the column, Jared sucks in a breath at the entry with the lowest liquidity. The Avaz holdings are attempting to sell some older structures that no longer house the product. It’s decrepit and falling apart rapidly, and they are having a decent struggle trying to find someone to buy the place at a reasonable price.

Jared points to the entry and slides it across the polished desk. “This is not suspicious activity, but I’m curious. Why not just sell and take a loss, it’s been long standing for fifteen years, since the new offices were completed.” Richard grins. “I never take a loss, Jared. There’ll be someone who will buy it for the price I am offering, and it’s on good land. It’s the renovation that will cost the money.”

Jared nods to himself, motioning for the sheet back. He knows this is just a cursory copy, the bulk of it is in the company’s annual reports, but he likes to skim the top layer, gives him a feel for the situation.

Jared folds the paper up, slips it into the pocket of his artak’in and smiles congenitally in Richard’s direction. “The annual reports have been sent to Lerrnayin, correct?” Richard hums. “Yes. They’ll be compiled there and then sent to the Nakhagah for inspection.

Richard’s eyes roam over him lazily. “Once your father completes his termination ceremony, I suppose that’ll be you.” Jared’s momentarily nonplussed that Richard has so casually disregarded Jeff in the ranking, but he knows how it appears in the outside world. Jeff has taken the place of the second primary in Tun Padalecki, and there’s no honor in that. Chad snorts again and Jared wonders why he even considers the man his best friend.

Jared stands. “This is the first of many visits, until I can ascertain what the problem entails. Thank you for your time.” Richard rises and provides Jared with the sign, escorting him out. Jared doesn’t know where to begin. He knows that the accounts will leave a fingerprint of forgery somewhere, and that he’ll need analysts to come investigate the tampering.

He almost slams headlong into someone as he exits the office, walking briskly to the private landing deck housing his ‘mek. Anger seeps in along his eyes, and he brushes himself off as he looks up. Chad and Kane both grab at his arms, steadying him and Chad gives him a look that clearly states that he needs to bite his tongue. He struggles to place the face at first, it looks remotely familiar, but something about it is a bit off.

“My Mets Ter,” The man stammers out, sign of the blessing, and Jared can see from his manyak that he is a Ter. The crest is a Sard, and Jared immediately knows which Tun this yntrel belongs to. “Ter Amell,” he replies stonily, eyes raking over the face in front of him. This is Robert, he believes, if memory serves him, second primary of Tun Amell, as his cousin Stephen is the only son of his father’s.

He’s got dark brown hair and a wicked smile, all mischief and mirth, and Jared thinks they might have been friends in another time. Right now the boy only inspires irritation, and it’s probably to do with the fact that his k’ayly attempted to steal Jensen right from under his fingertips, when he had already taken great pains to procure the bavakanin.

Robert laughs, slightly discomfitted at having bumped into what is currently the most powerful man in the Empire. Jared uses this to his advantage, smiles sardonically. “Something you needed?” Robert flushes a bit and then regains his composure. “This is a pleasant surprise, I was just discussing you with one of your tsarra. Bavakanin, in fact.”

Jared chills, eyebrow raised. “Were you? Which one, if I may ask?” Robert smiles. “Jensen, of Tegh Ackles, I believe.” Jared barely prohibits himself from cursing, clenches his hands punch-tight, instead. “Really? When did you have the pleasure of meeting him?” Robert waves a hand in the air flippantly. “He was shopping with another tsarra, one of yours, I presume, and I ran across him.” Robert pauses, and then continues. “I noticed him because he’s extraordinarily beautiful bavakanin, my Mets Ter. I hope I did not overstep. I did not pursue, once I found out who contracted him.”

Jared can relax a bit at that, seems this Amell has more sense than his k’ayly. “Wise choice, Ter Robert. I don’t tend to share and my mayr always told me I didn’t play well.” His smile is more teeth than actual amusement, and he’s pleased to see that Robert takes a slight step backwards.

“Well, we did have a lovely conversation,” Robert offers, voice more chilled than before. “He’s beautiful. You take care, Mets Ter.”

Robert swings his way into the Ferma offices, and Jared is left trembling in his wake. There is no reason why this boy should get under his skin. He’s a child, at best, and Jared holds more influence and power than the entirety of Tun Amell combined.

He shakes the distaste off and turns to his ‘mek. He’s really very proud of the thing. it’s golden, and he had the family crest emblazoned on the side in red, professionally done, glinting in the sky. It’s more understated than most ‘meks of azniv families, and he likes it that way. Kane claps him on the back, spits in disdain in the direction of the retreating Ter.

His mind wanders to Jensen on the voyage back, and his stomach troubles him in a most unpleasant way. Tsarra have not been branded with the claim of ownership of azniv T’agavors since Voski Tari, but Jared thinks he would like to bring this particular custom back.

It bothers him, the sense of propriety he feels, but he has always been a jealous boy, always been completely enamored with his things. He’d like to talk to Jensen about it, not behave in such a barbaric manner, save himself from acting like such a kapkel. He resolves to do this, in between Ferma meetings.

-

Jared’s seated next to Chad, which is always a poor choice for every journey, and he would be more irritated, if it weren’t for the fact that Chad can travel nowhere without his favorite tsarra, pale pink flesh perched on Chad’s leg, smooth skin rubbed raw from Chad’s continuous stroking.

The boy remains forever pink in Chad’s arms, and Chad laughs loudly when the bavakanin buries his face in Chad’s neck, fond amusement.

Kane has brought two parade tsarra with him as well, and the female sits in front of his legs, playing mindlessly with the tassels on the hem on his pants.

“Kane,” Jared calls thoughtlessly, and the shorter man faces him with a small smile. “Jay?” He provides, relaxed drawl of the sea and voginery. “You’ll never fit in in Hosank,’ they’ll find you frivolous.” Kane guffaws into a closed fist. “Me? I just like the water, m’boy.” Jared shakes his head good-naturedly, scans the cabin for Jensen, before he remembers that he and Danneel are bringing snacks from the onboard kitchen.

He’s wound tight, tighter than he’s ever been, and he’s hanging on doggedly to these moments of happiness, considering he doesn’t know what he’ll find at the end of the trail. Jensen comes inside alone, Danni apparently left to her own devices, slides a bowl of Bal near him, holds the red fruit out to Jared to eat.

The ‘mek is about to descend, and Jared knows that Hosank’ will soon be stretching in to view. It’s a fantastic city, sleek architecture, metal lines and sharp points. Jared reaches for Jensen’s wrist, pulls him onto his lap with a small whimper from the boy.

“Would you like to see Hosank’ as we land?” The spirits make him loose, he hates the feeling of non-control, but he imbied anyway, too stressed to do otherwise.

Jensen angles his head, sharp green eyes glaring into Jared’s hazel. “Alright, but ask, next time. I don’t like to be knocked around.” Jensen claps fingers over his mouth, red flush, and Jared can do nothing but laugh, muscular arm curved around Jensen’s smaller waist.

“The mek peeks through the clouds, and Jared inches them closer to the window, motions for Jensen to part the curtains. Jensen does so and gasps, his breath fogging up the chilled glass.

“It is Dzmerr here, that’s why I asked you to dress warmly.” Jensen fiddles with the soft neck of the black sweater he’s wearing and presses fingertips to the pane. It’s snowing, and the flakes obscure the city a bit, but Jared can still see the light show underneath, the metal towers dissolving into sharp spikes of buildings, silver and black of the city and landing decks.

Jensen breathes loudly, forehead wrinkling slightly. Jur doesn’t get that much snow, and Hosank’ swims in it during this season.

Jensen’s eyes are bright, and he only flinches slightly as they begin the descent, Jared’s aparank’ located in the very hub of the city.

“Can we play in it?” Jared can tell Jensen is trying very hard not to seem overly excited, and the thought warms him. “Of course,” he says kindly, grip tightening against the bavakanin unconsciously. “But you’re on my team. You’re less drunk than the three of us, and I like to win.”

Jensen squirms on his lap, inadvertent movement of anticipation, and lets a wicked smile twist his features, corners of his eyes crinkling slightly.

“There’s no doubt about that, my Mets Ter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the artist rendition of the city of Hosank.'
> 
> All credit due to Jadrien C, because God didn't see fit to bless me with a creative bone in my body.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms to Know:  
> Tssarukyan (zar-ook-yahn) Fairy Tales (for children)  
> burd (boord) tsarra coat  
> hakvats (hahk-vahts) household tsarra  
> tort’ (thort) azniv dessert cake  
> verarku (vair-r-coo) ceremonial azniv coat  
> p’vos (pos) swimming hole

They aren’t able to play in the snow quite as soon as Jensen would like. It’s colder here than it’s been in any place that he’s ever known, and he’s on the fence as to whether he likes it or not. He thinks he’s been spoiled by the warmer weather he’s always lived in, and he figures that maybe it’ll grow on him.

“Looks much prettier in the Tsarrukyan,” Jensen mutters obstinately, glaring out of the sharp square angles of the windows in Mets Ter Jared’s aparank.’

Danny smacks him with the flat of her hand, wide grin and soft brown eyes. “Only you could find a way to complain, even though you’d only been to Jur and T’yer before our great big adventure.” Jensen sticks his lower lip out in a mock pout.

“I’ve done no such thing. It’s just freezing here, and as much as there was to do in Avaz, there’s no one out here at all.” Jensen presses his forehead against the cool glass and sighs in some contempt.

“There’s a lot to do if you know where to go looking for it.”

Danny squeaks and pulls the lapel of her burd closer to her neck and reaches fingers out for Jensen’s hand. Jensen pets at her hair absently and turns around to face the newcomer. When he sees it’s only Brock he relents, sighs deep from his toes.

“Why must you creep around like that? Scared Danny to death.” She swats at him playfully. “I’m fine! It’s just so quiet here. There’s a Voghjuyn later tonight, right?” Brock nods, scratches at his forehead. “It’s just less crazy in Hosank’ this time of year.” He grins widely, taps Danny conspiratorially on the shoulder. “That means the parties are that much wilder.”

Jensen snorts. “That just means we won’t get a moment’s peace. At least hakvats are allowed to stay in the Greater Tun. We’ve got to walk around all night.”

Brock flops his body down in the stiff metallic armchair behind Jensen.

“That’s boring as all hell, Jen. Live a little.” Jensen sniffs, and allows Danny to drape herself unceremoniously over his back.

“I do. I am.” He sighs. “I know it’s not normally like this all the time, is probably easier when Mets Ter Jared isn’t on a mission to see every single District, but I’m not so good with--” he waves his arm out expressively.

“All of this.” Danny braces one foot on the polished marble of the floor and wraps the other leg around Jensen’s unwilling hips. “Hold still, Jen.” Jensen rolls his eyes in Brock’s direction and the other boy laughs, low in his chest.

Danny propels herself upward and snakes her free leg around the opposite hip. Jensen squats and then grunts a bit as he hoists her further on his back. She taps at his head. “Don’t grunt when you lift me. I’m light as a feather.”

Jensen blinks slowly. “That’s one too many tort,’ Danny. It’s going straight to your hips.” He reaches a hand back to squeeze. “Squishy.”

She howls, as he had intended, and Brock gracefully propels himself into a standing position.

“What do you say we play in the snow, then?” Jensen raises a brow, even though he’s mildly excited. “Are we allowed?”

Brock adjusts the red tassel on the end of his sleeve. “Course. Mets Ter and his friends are all out, business, I guess, and we’re bavakanin, so what else is there for us to do?” Jensen’s nodding and he can feel Danny’s fingers tangle in his short locks. He’s essentially right. They’re ornamental pieces and they’re usually given free reign when there aren’t any ceremonies going on.

Or when the Mets Ters don’t have need of their company at the present. Jensen sticks his tongue into the pocket of his inner cheek. “Alright. I’ll need my burd, Danny, you’ll need to climb down, and we can all meet back here.” Brock grins, claps his hands once.

“Great! No one else wants to come out. Say it’s too cold.” Brock wrinkles his head in confusion. “Anna grew up here, so I guess that makes sense.”

Danny’s speeding ahead, tugging Jensen hard by the elbow, knobbly fingers. Jensen’s just going to wear his brown one, but Danny slaps it out of his hand and stuff his arms into his navy blue burd, and it’s crisp and new and embroidered with the crest of his Tun, in Tun colors.

Jensen buttons it up to his neck, doesn’t want to underestimate how cold it is. Brock’s bouncing on the balls of his feet when they arrive and when they step outside, sleek silver of the aparank’ closing behind them, it’s dead silent.

There are a few meks whizzing overhead but the air is mostly thick with absence, and crisply falling snow, wet-warm on Jensen’s lashes. He’s caught blissfully unawares when a snowball smacks him directly in his cheek.

His face is pink with cold and he watches as Danny trips away, high laugh in her mouth, red-gold hair tied up in a soft bun on top of her head.

Brock’s farther away, and it looks like he’s making a stockpile of snowballs, and Jensen’s not doing anything but staring at the jagged points of Hosankian structures as they cut through the arc of the sky. He bends down, touches snow for the very first time in all his life, and it’s bitter to the flesh.

He packs it as best he can, and it’s laughably small in his fist, but he hurls it at Danny anyway, and it hits her arm with a soft thump.

“Put some weight behind it,” she hollers, graceless, and Jensen huffs under his breath. Weight. Alright, he didn’t want to hurt her, but she’s always pressing at his buttons. He gathers as many projectiles into his arms as he can and runs forward, away from the shade of the aparank.’

He sees Brock hurl three in rapid succession and he dodges two but the last finds him squarely in the back.

He runs, rather than set up camp close to them, he’d rather have the element of surprise when they inevitably come looking for him.

He’s setting down his stockpile when he feels it, the way the snow moves beneath his feet, a slight give that makes Jensen feel as if he’s walking on water. He steps onto it further, cautiously, and then it gives entirely, and Jensen’s body is flung downwards, hitting the bottom of the hole with a heavy thump.

It’s apparently been covered by the snow, and Jensen doesn’t know the customs of the District, can’t imagine what this could be used for in the warmer months. He curses lowly.

There’s no footholds with which to climb out of, and there’s falling snow trickling in, as well as heavily packed snow that’s leaning over precariously from the sides of his inadvertent opening.

He cups his hands around his mouth and hollers.

“Danny! Brock!”

He feels foolish but the sound is trapped around him entirely, and it’s gotten more windy up top. He’s having trouble hearing himself. He takes a deep breath and stretches out his arms. The hole is big enough that he can’t touch the walls with his arms completely extended, but it’s freezing.

There’s shelter from the wind, which Jensen counts as a plus, but it’s bone-chilling, and Jensen tucks his hands in his pockets and feels the trickle of a shiver trip down his spine.

He tries calling out again, and doesn’t stop, panic sluicing its way through frozen bone.

Well, fuck.

He sits down, draws his knees up to his chest and resolves to wait it out. Eventually they’ll come looking for him, and it’ll be hard to miss this big, whatever this is, in the middle of the the city. He’s sure this sort of thing happens all the time.

He tucks his head against his knees.

When he wakes up, jolts into awareness like light, he can tell that the sun’s gone down some, and he can’t feel his fingers. His heads thumping like a heartbeat, and it’s leaden.

He’s exhausted, body cumbersome and warm. He tucks himself up further into a ball and lets his eyes drift shut. He can sleep until they come.

-

Danneel’s voice is mysteriously loud and excitable when he, Chris and Chad return to the aparank,’ head to toe dressed in verarku, and Chad’s got both hands wrapped around the chill of his manyak, and he’s cursing lowly about the fact that he’s drank the last of the voginery he usually keeps stashed in a pocket.

Jared can feel the damp way the tips of his hair curls around his ears and he lets out a growl of frustration over the fact.

When Danny trips her way into their line of sight, Chris is cursing the weather something fierce, and he stops with a faint blush when the bavakanin skids to a halt in front of them, red tresses spilling about her cheeks.

She’s been sobbing, that much he’s aware of, the crimson rim of her eyelids and slightly swollen cheeks. He’s reaching out for her hands and pulling her close before he’s aware of the sensation.

“My Mets Ter,” she sniffles, voice thick with tears.

“We were playing in the snow and we lost Jensen. We can’t find him anywhere, and it’s so _cold_ outside--” Jared pushes her back a step, to look in her eyes.

“Where were you playing?” He knows he’s coming across rudely, and his grip is too tight against slim shoulders, but the boy is missing, and it’s too brutal to be outside, especially with the snowstorms typical of this time of year.

She babbles that they remained just in front of the aparank,’ and Chris glances at him. “Do you think--” Chad sighs, long-suffering, and closes his eyes. “He’s probably in a p’vos.” Jared blinks and loosens his grasp.

“Show me, Danny.”

And that’s how they all end up outside, snow falling too thickly about them, and the hush over the city that invariably comes at this time of day. Danny’s hand is tight in his own, and she looks wrecked.

Jared’s own heart is spinning in his chest, and he thinks of how slight the boy is, the way he probably hasn’t hit his final growth spurt, smooth limbs and wide verdant eyes.

Jared walks faster, Danny at a gentle trot next to him.

Chad’s the one to find him, knows the city a bit better than the rest.

“Jay. I think he’s here. It’s cleared away, like someone’s fallen.” Chad squats and squints, and then Jared is nearby, hunched over the edge. There’s a bundle down there, like deadened leaves, and Jared nods.

Jared’s shaking, so frightened with how still Jensen looks at the bottom, covered in a soft blanket of fresh white.

“Was it only you and Jensen, Danny?” He calls back, as he rolls up his sleeves in silent preparation to climb down.

Danny shakes her head vigorously.

“Brock too, Mets Ter. He’s--he was so scared--”

Jared pauses, which he cannot afford, but his body stiffens anyway, and Chad’s looking directly at him, his normally open face inscrutable.

Brock knows. He should’ve known. They’re always warned about this when they play outdoors in Hosank.’ Chris gives him a firm shove to his shoulder, in reminder of the task, and Jared’s tallest and braces himself for the drop below.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are lifeblood!


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